


A Line in the Sand

by electricshoebox



Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 4
Genre: Alcohol, Angst and Humor, Angst with a Happy Ending, Blood and Gore, Deep dive into Deacon's injured psyche, Dreams and Nightmares, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Forced Cohabitation, Found Family, M/M, Major Character Injury, Mutual Pining, Past Drug Use, Pining, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Resolved Sexual Tension, Romantic Tension, Slow Burn, Survivor Guilt, Trust Issues
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-16
Updated: 2020-09-05
Packaged: 2020-09-14 00:56:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 23
Words: 194,079
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20264608
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/electricshoebox/pseuds/electricshoebox
Summary: **Chapter 23 now posted!!**Desdemona is asking him to do the hardest thing he’s done in years, and not for the reason she thinks. It’s not because she’s asking him to risk his life. It’s because she’s asking him to stand still and pretend to live it.When Deacon hatches a plan to get the General of the Minutemen to help the Railroad, he doesn't count on it including an assignment to live in the settlement with him. He doesn't count on it waking up ghosts he's been trying to keep buried. He doesn't count on it including a working relationship (and sharing a house) with an asshole mercenary that he can't stand. Worse than that, he doesn't count on actually learning to like the guy.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, fellow rarepair lovers. It's taken my fourth playthrough of Fallout 4 to fall head first into this pairing but I'm diving deep. This fic is the first of a three part slow burn series, so bear with me, it's going to take some twists and turns but they'll get there. This series is going to be heavily Deacon-centric, as I have a hell of a lot of feelings about the snatches we get of his backstory and his identity issues and his use of humor. But there will also be plenty of bickering and feelings, and a heavy dose of MacCready. 
> 
> Many, many thanks to **serenity-fails** for being my ever-encouraging, sharp-eyed beta and idea sounding board. They deserve a medal for their patience over many a lunch spent rambling about my feelings.
> 
> As forewarning, this chapter does have brief descriptions of corpses and decay as well as some hints of PTSD. Please take care.

The first time Deacon lays eyes on Robert Joseph MacCready, he’s sitting at a beer-stained high top table in the Third Rail, because where else would you find someone shady, untrustworthy, and not currently out getting paid for it? 

Ah, Goodneighbor. Of all the communities scattered patchwork and threadbare across the Commonwealth, it’s Goodneighbor that sees Deacon most often. “Of the people, for the people” indeed. Of the unwanted, undesirable, unsavory people--but that was exactly the point. No one looked too close at a town run by the kind of guy who’d stab someone in the street for running their mouth at you, then turn around and give you some Jet and a back pat for your trouble. The Railroad Packaging and Shipping Company slid its couriers and their “packages” in and out without a backward glance, at least not from the mayoral office. But it was also the sort of place where the right words whispered with the right charm and with the right amount of caps and beers sliding across the table got you all sorts of information. Which worked in Deacon’s favor two ways: getting information of his own, and seeing who else was doing the same.

He had three different aliases he flipped through in Goodneighbor depending on the day, who he needed to schmooze, and whether he was in mood to squeeze into tight leather pants. He had a creeping suspicion that Whitechapel Charlie saw through all of them, as he was always handed the whiskey neat he preferred no matter the clothes and before he could say a word. It would have alarmed him, but the old bot never called him on it, and never said anything to the other patrons that Deacon could see, and no one bothered him. He’d take it.

Still, Deacon didn’t doubt the Institute's talons had sunk deep into the flesh of even this carefree little city; if he could do little more than throw on a leather jacket and sunglasses and fade straight into the background, then so could the Institute. It was the kind of assumption that kept him, and Doc A, and the Railroad itself alive. So Deacon took notice when new faces showed up, and made it a point to hang around often enough to know when they _were_ new faces. A revolving door of drifters and travelers came and went on the regular, but it was the ones that stayed that got Deacon’s attention. 

He’s settled into persona number 2—a drifter in a battered jean jacket over a white t-shirt that went by Sam, just Sam—and perched at the high top across from the stairs the first time MacCready strolls in.

It’s not his first time in the Third Rail, that much is obvious. He doesn’t do the new guy bit of stopping at the end of the stairs to take in the set up, look for a table, or stare at Magnolia for a few minutes before someone bumps into him and gets him moving. He marches down the stairs and straight for the bar, claiming an empty stool like his name’s branded on it. Whitechapel Charlie glides up and greets him with “Same as last time, MacCready?”

“Yeah, thanks Charlie.”

Familiar enough for that, then. Still, he’s new enough that Deacon hasn’t seen him before; business had kept him running between HQ and Bunker Hill for the last two weeks. He sips at his whiskey and takes inventory. Bullets slipped in the hat band, and strapped in rows around the left thigh—not subtle. A deceptively loose duster with a scarf tucked over the neck—definitely hiding armor, more than likely a few pistols along with it. At the very _least_ a knife, if he wasn’t that good at what he was doing. Sturdy boots, combat-issue--either thrifty, discerning, and smart, or a Gunner. Or both. There wasn’t a military to speak of in the Commonwealth, not since the Minutemen got put down hard south of the city. Didn’t look like the type to be one of the stragglers. There were plenty of military outfits elsewhere, and likely enough he could’ve been from one of them, but not many of those ended up this far north, and definitely not in Goodneighbor. That left Gunner, or ex-Gunner, in which case, mercenary.

He isn’t unique. Mercenaries, hired guns, the occasional assassin—Deacon sees them all come through as often as all the rest of Diamond City’s Most Unwanted. Usually assholes. Usually not worth shadowing much. If they’re a threat, he’ll hear about it here. This is the easiest place in the Commonwealth to hire a gun.

Right on cue, a burly-looking guy in a dusty suit comes stomping down the stairs next. Deacon keeps his head turned toward MacCready, but beneath the sunglasses, his eyes follow the suit over to the bar. The guy’s nervous, tapping his fingers against his palms as he walks. He looks to one side of the room, then the other, and only thinks to slow his marching when he’s already halfway to the bar. MacCready watches him (along with about half the people around him) with half-lidded eyes and the distant imprint of a smirk. Deacon knows the look. Easy money. As much distaste as he has for people like MacCready (ready to lop off the nearest head for the promise of caps and a bottle of whiskey), this guy is asking for it.

Deacon waits until the man scrambles up onto the stool next to MacCready, who’s sitting half-draped on the bar, his back to it, one elbow resting behind him. It’s kind of an inviting lean. Objectively. He knows enough to know how to draw people in, at least, so no wonder he’s getting business. Deacon gives it another minute before swallowing down the last of his drink and carrying the glass back over to the bar. He stands a couple stools over from the two, enough space for it to look coincidental, and flags Charlie down.

“Another o’ these,” he says, sinking into Boston-rounded vowels. Charlie plucks it from him without a word. Deacon leans his elbows on the counter and keeps his face neutral, leaning his head a little in the direction of the stage, like he’s listening to the music.

“—hanging around, and he never does that—“ the man is saying, in the sort of voice only someone who’s never had to be careful thinks is quiet. 

“So he’s changed habits,” MacCready says, at the same volume, and Deacon can hear the boredom and amusement without having to turn to see it written on his face. Not even trying to hide it. 

Deacon assumes—correctly, he immediately learns—that the man doesn’t pick up on it. Charlie slides a drink into Deacon’s hands.

“It’s more than that!” the man insists, louder, and then immediately lowers his voice. “He’s changed, completely—“ He says something else, finally too low for Deacon to hear under the music.

Deacon slowly slips onto a stool, angling his body toward the stage and away from the two men. He takes a drink, and nearly chokes on it when the music ends just in time for him to hear a hissed stage-whisper of “_Synth_!”

He applauds with the rest of the bar, making it look sloppy, carefully keeping tension out of his posture. He leans back just the slightest bit, risking a turn of his head to angle his ear better.

There’s a moment of silence, which tempts Deacon to peek over his shoulder, but he stays still. Another song begins, filling the air with the tinny sound of brass. 

“Three hundred and fifty. Up front,” MacCready finally says, flatly. Deacon swallows down his revulsion with another healthy gulp of whiskey.

“Three-_fifty_?” Mr. Oblivious squeaks. 

“Up front.”

“But they—“ he starts, once again too loud, and then in another stage whisper, “—they said your usual is two-fifty.”

“Hazard pay,” MacCready says. “You obviously know as well as I do how dangerous synths are. And one-on-ones aren’t my usual specialty.”

“But surely—surely no more dangerous than what you’d face with your…_usual_ specialty.” He echoes the last with obvious distaste.

“Sure, I’ve shot down supermutants, raiders, ferals—but this is a _synth._”

“Not so loud!”

MacCready adopts the same loud whisper the man had been using. “Don’t you know what they say about them?”

There’s a pause, a little theatrical—Deacon would know—and then he continues, “They say they’re like time bombs. They’ve got this button they can push and then it’s—“ He makes a noise meant to mimic an explosion, and Deacon catches waving hands out of the corner of his eye. “Takes precision to take ‘em out before it happens.”

“I don’t—I don’t have three-fifty. I can give you two-fifty now—“

“No deal,” MacCready says.

Mr. Oblivious splutters. “But—but that’s—that’s more than fair. I can get the rest—“

“You’re asking a lot here,” MacCready says, mocking uncertainty if Deacon’s ever heard it. How the suit hasn’t figured out he’s being played by now is a wonder.

“I’m asking you to do what you’re supposedly good at!” His voice is rising, offended. “You’re the one that’s—“

“All right. Two-fifty up front. Two hundred later.”

“Two hundred! But you said—“

“Taking a lot on faith here, pal, for a really dangerous job. You wanted the best,” MacCready says. 

“This is ridiculous,” Mr. Oblivious says. The stool scrapes against the floor, and there’s a thump of feet. “Nobody is worth this trouble.”

“Suit yourself,” MacCready says, loud enough to be heard as Mr. Oblivious storms toward the stairs. “Don’t come crying to me when the time bomb goes off.”

Deacon figures that was loud enough to warrant a glance over without suspicion. MacCready is back in the same reclining position, forearm braced against the bar, smirk on his lips. He raises his glass mockingly as his would-be client grumbles his way up the stairs, chuckling to himself as he takes a sip.

“Not gonna earn much if you keep that up,” Whitechapel Charlie glides over, and Deacon turns his gaze toward the liquor bottles lining the back wall. 

MacCready laughs. “God, it was worth it. The look on his face when I started the bullsh—crap about them exploding.” He shakes his head. “I probably would’ve done it anyway, if he hadn’t been a jerk.”

Deacon hides a frown in his drink, swallowing down the last. If his hold on the glass is a little tighter than it should be, well. Better than throwing it at the stupid, typical asshole merc’s head. Throw caps at him and he’ll blow someone’s head off, bonus points if it’s a synth, not going to stop to ask. Deacon’s stomach churns with a frighteningly familiar kind of revulsion he isn’t interested in stewing in here, next to this dick, in this shithole. Not the kind of mirror he wants to be looking into tonight, thanks. 

He stands, making sure to wobble, and fishes in his pockets for caps. 

“Night, Charlie,” he mumbles, accent thick, without waiting to see if the bot even heard him. He stumbles his way toward the stairs, making a show of catching himself on one of the couches as he goes. 

He’s going to have to keep an eye on this one. Nothing on this irradiated earth appeals to him less.

\-------

The first time Deacon actually meets MacCready is in the last place he wants to see him--two steps behind Deacon’s latest project, the Commonwealth’s Deadliest Popsicle, and heading straight for the crumbling overpass Deacon’s standing beneath, waiting. Because fucking of course he is.

It’s about the thirty-seventh time Deacon’s laid eyes on him. MacCready had planted himself in the Third Rail like a weed and grown roots in the weeks since turning down the synth job. Though business apparently picked up enough that he started meeting his clients in the back room over the bar, which made surveillance more difficult. Fortunately, Deacon’s spinning kaleidoscope of disguises and a few careful, casual questions got him enough information to fill in the blanks. It wasn’t enough to dig down to the foundation, find the skeletons buried in the basement, but it got him the surface dirt easy enough. The full name was the freebie; Deacon got that just from keeping his ears open. Rumor pinned MacCready as a Capital Wasteland transplant, and yeah, all right, who wouldn't want to take the first caravan out of that shithole? Once was more than enough for Deacon. It explained the cutthroat mentality, at least.

From there, it didn’t take much. MacCready had a quickie hookup with the Gunners, as Deacon had already guessed--in and out in under a few months, and the breakup hadn’t gone well. They weren’t too pleased that he’d left but not _left_. His little mercenary side gig was landing him in hot water, but he kept at it anyway, which meant he was either stupid, arrogant, or desperate. Deacon’s caps were on all three. Desperate for _what_ was the question. He didn’t seem particularly attached to anyone, which Deacon could glean half from just observing on his own. He’d been seen visiting Hancock’s office once or twice, but that wasn’t especially noteworthy. Everyone ended up there eventually, unless you were a super cool spy with super impressive evasion skills. It also meant it probably wasn’t chems he was desperate for, either. And he avoided the Memory Den altogether. The story wasn’t that unique, all told. And while the obvious ambivalence for synths in his line of work made him one for Deacon to watch, Deacon might’ve dropped the whole thing, mostly, if not for the Vault Dweller. 

It wasn’t a great sign that the Minutemen’s newly-appointed General was coming to the Third Rail to hire guns, but all right, fresh out of the freezer and needing a little backup while the Minutemen were still in tatters made sense. When he’d heard they’d managed to clean out the Castle up near University Point and had started recruiting, Deacon figured that’d be end-of-transaction, and MacCready would eventually reappear somewhere Deacon could keep him in the peripheral. After all, when the General had eventually taken Deacon’s carefully placed hints and followed the trail to HQ, he’d had Preston Garvey in tow. 

But no, down the hill marches Robert fucking MacCready, sniper rifle in hand, and while he’s not the last person in the Commonwealth Deacon wants in on this mission, he’s pretty damn low on the list. Deacon considers calling the whole thing off right there. 

“Funny, I don’t remember putting a plus one on the invitation, General,” Deacon says once they’re close enough to hear.

The General raises his hands in a placating gesture. “Anthony will do. That is a hell of a disguise, by the way.” 

“Wastelander camo. You’re lucky I didn’t do one of my face swaps too.” Deacon smirks, tugging the leather gloves higher up his elbows.

“Jesus, I’m not even going to ask. Anyway, I know, I took some liberty here. But things being as they are--with the Minutemen and all--I don’t travel alone. Especially not meeting a group we know...very little about. No offense, but we’re both taking risks.”

Deacon could appreciate a man who knew how to take precautions, and he’d given Anthony little to go on for just that reason. Still, precautions including taking a cap-mongering bastard as backup tipped the scales back out of his favor. “Fair enough, I can understand a little caution. This one of your Minutemen?”

MacCready snorts, which earns him a sidelong look from the General.

“Actually, no. Not officially. He’s--”

“Security,” MacCready says. He fixes Deacon with an appraising look, eyes narrow. Aw, tough guy act. Cute. Deacon smirks at him and MacCready scowls.

“A friend,” Anthony says, firmly, and Deacon is very interested in the brief flicker in MacCready’s gaze, a split-second softening before the glare is back. Huh.

“And a crackshot,” Anthony adds. “Which I’m guessing we might need. You did say the job was ‘wild and dangerous.’”

“So I did.” Deacon nods toward MacCready. “A pleasure. Something you want to be called besides Guard Dog?”

The scowl is back immediately. Deacons wonders if he knows how much it makes him look like a petulant child when paired with the oversized coat. 

“MacCready.”

“Well, we’ll make this a real party! I should’ve brought balloons. But I’m sure you at least brought the punch, am I right?” Deacon waggles his eyebrows, and lets them wonder which one of them the look is for. “Shall we?”

He turns without waiting for them and starts up the makeshift ramp made by broken slabs of concrete and a rusted out truck. Behind him, he hears MacCready mutter, “You didn’t tell me he was a _funny_ spy.”

“Oh, there’s all sorts of fun things to discover about me. I’m like unwrapping a present,” Deacon says over his shoulder. “So, about the job--”

\-------

The smell of the sewer hits them first. The air is as damp as the walls and heavy with the scent of rot. Deacon presses a hand to the wall to steady himself against it, and hears MacCready hiss out a hastily-corrected swear as he buries his nose in his sleeve. Deacon takes a slow, steadying breath, and catalogues details in his head until he feels calmer. The brick against his palm, cold, even through the leather. His boots sticking on the muddy floor. Light from beyond the security gate, alarm red and fluorescent white. 

This is going to be harder than he expected. 

He’s the first of the Railroad to come back, a few bare weeks out. And he’ll be the last. When they lock the door on the other side, it’ll be nothing more than a tomb.

He straightens and clears his throat, trying to focus. Not the time for this. “So, the reason we’re--”

But Anthony’s already wandered to the terminal just to the side of the gate. Tech-savvy type? That’ll be handy. He presses a few keys, and the terminal intones, “Voice recognition activated. State your name and identification number.”

“Anthony Nguyen. B76428.”

“Authorization granted.” The security gate clicks open.

Shit on a stale biscuit. It takes a bit of willpower to keep from gaping. A quick glance to Deacon’s right shows MacCready has that covered. Anthony turns back around and looks sheepish.

“I should’ve put together where we were headed when you mentioned the Slocum’s Joe,” he says. “Sorry.”

“Do you do magic tricks, too? Pull a quarter out of my ear next,” Deacon says.

Anthony chuckles. “I’m going to guess not many of my records were accessible.”

“They were very accessible to the supermutants guarding the Fraternal Post door,” Deacon says.

Anthony nods and gives a little shrug. “They wouldn’t have told you much in the way of specifics except that I’d been assigned to covert operations.”

Deacon stares at him. “You worked for the DIA.”

“More in conjunction with than for, but yes.”

“Holy sh--crap, Anthony,” MacCready finally pipes up. Deacon’s thoughts exactly.

“No wonder you handled that tourist like a pro,” Deacon says. “We are going to do so much talking when things aren’t waiting in the next room to kill us. You...should lead the way. I’ll explain as we go.” 

“You’ve probably spent more time here than I have.” But he reaches over his shoulder to swing the strap of his combat rifle forward and takes point anyway, leading them with careful steps through the gate. 

There’s a body sprawled on the tunnel floor, a pool of blood congealed into the dirt beneath him. He recognizes the hair more than the slowly decomposing face. Roger. Fuck. He darts his eyes up quickly when a wave of nausea rolls through his stomach. 

“There’s a rail sign here. Uh, this one--means danger,” he says, pointing up to one of the protruding bricks. He sighs, voice dropping to a whisper. “Yeah, we know, you poor dead bastard. We know.”

Anthony glances back at him, the red light on the wall glinting on his eyeglasses. “I’m sorry, Deacon.”

Splashing from ahead of them makes Deacon stiffen and crouch back into the tunnel on instinct, and he’s almost grateful for the distraction. MacCready and Anthony follow. “That’ll be our party guests. Gen-1s and 2s, the Institute’s personal army.”

“Guess we should get the party started, then.” Anthony lifts his scope. Deacon pulls out his pistol, squares his shoulders, and does not look down.

\-------

Okay, so, Anthony’s good at this.

Really, really good at this. 

Which is a completely welcome distraction that Deacon is very nearly almost kind of distracted by. Anthony shoots with a mechanical precision that lands bullets square between the eye lights of the Gen-1s, leaving them in piles of twitching wires and plastic behind him. MacCready stays close on his heels, nailing the ones Anthony doesn’t get to first with headshots of his own. It feels a bit like watching one of the pre-war pixel games Tinker Tom plays on his terminal on slow nights when he thinks no one’s looking. And it’s a lot better to keep his eyes on the fireworks show than on the bodies they’re stepping over to get those shots. Don’t look down, don’t look down, don’t look down.

“I’ll just be back here, taking a nap. Wake me up if there’s something you can’t one-hit-kill,” Deacon says after the last of the synths in the central operations room falls clattering down the stairs, sparking. Stick to the jokes, don’t look down. He gets a chuckle from Anthony and a very satisfying eye roll from MacCready.

“Jealous?” MacCready asks as he leans on one of the desks circled up at the center of the room and begins to reload.

Deacon snorts, stepping casually to his left to put an overturned desk between him and the sprawled remains of Songbird a few feet away. “Are you kidding? You’re making my job easy. I’ll only have to embellish like ten percent of this to get Dez on board and I barely had to fire a shot.” He waves a dismissive hand. “They’re all yours, pal.”

MacCready finishes sliding bullets into place and cocks the gun. “Good to know you’ll be pulling your own weight.”

“We can’t all be precision killers. Some of us like to get our caps the old fashioned way,” Deacon says, folding his arms.

MacCready looks up, narrowing his eyes. So he did pick up on that. At least he’s sharp. “Did you—? So you do know who I am.”

“Like I told Anthony, it’s my job to know things,” Deacon says. “Probably better to assume I know a lot of things.”

“So you’ve been in the Third Rail once or twice. Not exactly hard to miss me, Captain Super Spy,” MacCready says.

“Oh my god, I’m absolutely making that my codename from now on.”

“All right, kids, if we’re done kicking each other’s sand castles over?” Anthony jerks his head toward the stairs, and MacCready pushes off the desk.

“What is a sand castle?” he asks when he catches up.

Anthony turns to look at him, then glances at Deacon. “Is that not a thing anymore?” He twists his mouth up as he considers. “No, I guess it wouldn’t be, since crabs are human-sized in this century.”

“I mean, I’ve made a sand castle,” Deacon says with a shrug. 

MacCready glances between them. “I grew up in a cave.”

“That explains so much about you,” Deacon murmurs, and just laughs when MacCready flips up his middle finger.

\-------

A sudden, smoky stillness settles when the last of the Gen-1s falls outside the Slocum’s Joe. The silence is strange and hollow after the flurry of gunfire. Dust cakes the edges of Deacon’s sunglasses, but he doesn’t move to clean them. He needs the shield as he looks down at Deliverer in his hands.

“He’d want you to have it,” Deacon had said, holding the pistol out for Anthony to inspect as Deacon knelt next to the shelf and wrestled Carrington’s prototype into his backpack. 

He hadn’t been looking when Anthony stepped up next to him, but his head snapped right up when the gun was pushed gently back toward him. Anthony pursed his lips, a sad sort-of smile that Deacon immediately hated.

“I think he’d want _you_ to have it,” Anthony had said, quietly. Then he nodded to the bag. “Need a hand?”

Deacon blinks his thoughts clear, drawing a quick breath in through his nose. He tucks the pistol into his waistband and straightens, readjusting the backpack’s straps on his shoulders. He looks up in time to catch Anthony looking away. Fuck. Caught in a reverie, Deacon, nicely done.

“I need to get this back to HQ, so I should get moving. But listen--we should talk. Like, a lot. This could be an amazing partnership,” Deacon says.

Behind Anthony, MacCready straightens from picking some ammo off one of the fallen synths and scoffs. “Yeah, for you.” Deacon raises his eyebrows and MacCready turns to look when neither he nor Anthony respond. 

“What’s in it for him?” MacCready says. “More slogs through old sewers? A lot of angry robots shooting at him?” 

“RJ,” Anthony says, hand halfway lifted.

“Just saying, boss. You’ve got a lot on your plate already without joining a lost cause,” MacCready mutters. Deacon keeps his face very carefully, tightly neutral.

Okay. Time to pivot. “He’s not wrong,” Deacon says. 

Anthony raises an eyebrow, mildly surprised, and even MacCready pauses. There we go. Nobody ever actually expects the truth, especially from a man like Deacon, and that always makes it his best weapon. 

“You’re absolutely in the better bargaining position here, and I already admitted before we started this that the Railroad is desperate.” He gestures vaguely back in the direction of the security door. “You saw why, and what we’re up against. What the Institute will do to people who stand up to them. They’re ruthless, relentless, and powerful, and they’ll use all of that power to get their hands back on their slaves. And yeah, fair, roll your eyes.” He directs this at MacCready, who’d done just that. “It sounds dramatic, I get it, and I don’t expect you to take my word for it. Talk to the synths themselves. But I’ll give it to you as straight as I can, no bullshit.” 

He ignores the face MacCready makes over Anthony’s shoulder and continues, “This is an uphill push and we are constantly losing any ground we gain. It’s a shadow fight. We’re working off table scraps in terms of information and man power. And cards on the table, what you did with the Minutemen is exactly what we need, and it put you at the top of my recruitment list. But I’m not asking you to save us. I know you’ve already committed to a cause, to help the Commonwealth’s people in need. And there’s never any end to that. I’m just kinda hoping you’ll see our work as the same goal, and give us a hand.” 

MacCready folds his arms and shakes his head. Deacon doesn’t let a single facial muscle twitch as he thinks, _Fuck off, asshole. How do you walk through that sewer and see everything we lost and not fucking care?_

Deacon’s eyes move back to Anthony, who looks...thoughtful. Well, that’s something. Deacon had built his whole life around small victories, he’d take any he could get.

“You don’t need to decide right here. Think it over. Come back to HQ when you’re ready, whatever your answer is,” Deacon says. 

Anthony glances at the sky. Deacon can see the last dark strips of orange sunlight burning low between the buildings around them. The clouds overhead are already wreathed in dark blue, and it’s getting harder to see out of his sunglasses with the dust still clouding them. Anthony looks back at Deacon like he’s balancing scales in his head.

Finally, he says, “It’s almost nightfall. Not really the time to be picking your way back through the city.”

Deacon shrugs, and it makes one of the backpack straps slip low again. He tugs it up. “I’m not new to the game. I’ve got a few tricks up my sleeve.”

Anthony flicks his fingers toward the horizon, northward. “There’s a Minutemen settlement just up the road. You could come with us, bunk up for the night. Then we can all head to your HQ in the morning.”

Deacon considers. He’s tired, and hungry, and more than anything, he really doesn’t want to look into the faces of his comrades at HQ and keep seeing the ones missing, rotting into the floor far below their feet. But he mostly accepts because it makes MacCready scowl and roll his eyes again, and that feels just a little bit like revenge.

\-------

Deacon is the sort of man that gets around. Knowing things is, of course, his job, and it takes a lot of legwork to find the things worth knowing. So he travels. A lot. And sure, that travel doesn’t often take him to the more remote corners of the Commonwealth, but this is Lexington--spitting distance to the edge of old Boston, and he’d passed through regularly enough (maybe a _little_ less since the raiders took up residence in the old car factory) that he thought he could reasonably assume he’d notice if someone started _building a city._

He can see the lights long before they reach the settlement, and damn, that’s bold. When he realizes the brightest lights are coming from a five story building made of old warehouse paneling and what was once the towering drive-in movie screen, he’s--impressed doesn’t cover it. Agape. Completely taken aback. 

It’s not that he hasn’t seen settlements spring out of the splintered wood and broken stone littering the Commonwealth. Fairly successful ones, even. This? This isn’t a settlement. This is a statement. 

Anthony leads them through a heavy wooden gate, the only visible opening in an elaborate wooden wall lined with barbed wire that marks the settlement perimeter. An old billboard stretching high above them has been painted over to read “The City of Starlight,” and Deacon finds himself staring at it as they pause next to a guard tower built into the wall. Over the hum of the turrets lined up above them, Deacon hears Anthony greet the guard by name, and he turns away from the billboard to see a dark-skinned woman strapped head to toe into blue combat armor. Anthony starts to ask her something about the watch, and MacCready steps up next to him with a comment about “the eastern post.” Deacon tries to remind himself to listen, and not to gape, but _holy shit_. There’s a barracks built just a ways behind the drive-in’s old snack stand. They have enough guards to warrant a barracks.

This--was so much bigger than anyone in the Railroad had imagined. And that was, frankly, fucking terrifying.

Deacon knew the story of the Minutemen. At least, as much as anyone else did. A local militia built on good ideas and good intentions that rotted from the inside out until it collapsed in gunfire and blood. Not an unusual story for the Commonwealth, or anywhere else, really. Someone gets power, someone gets greedy, someone gets sloppy, a lot of people die. Rinse, repeat.

His eyes drift from the barracks to the rest of the snack stand, which has new walls built around the back and lights strung along the roof and a neon sign proclaiming it a bar. There’s a lot more light and color beyond it, further into the settlement than Deacon can see from here, and a few people strolling by. Deacon looks back to Anthony, who’s smiling and nodding at the guard--Tamara, Deacon catches this time. He gives her a pat on the shoulder.

Well, for yet another man who’s stumbled into power, he sure seems nice.

But it’s not even that the “unknown variable” (P.A.M.’s label for him finally seemed appropriate) is heading up a much bigger operation than the Railroad realized. It’s that they _hadn’t_ realized. For all of Deacon’s lurking and slinking and actual stalking, he’d somehow missed that the Minutemen’s return hadn’t just meant the Castle getting some new traffic. This was growing into a full-blown organization with a staggering amount of resources, building something that may actually outgrow Diamond City given a few years and a few more families. How could they have kept this quiet?

The way Deacon sees it, there’s two options here. One, the Railroad has a lot more to worry about than any of them had guessed, or will, when the Institute catches word of this place and starts doing what they do best: infiltration. Extra scary bonus round: they already had, and in allowing Anthony access at Deacon’s insistence, the Railroad is absolutely and very thoroughly fucked. Option two, they’ve just hit the alliance and resource jackpot. A settlement this big in the just-off-center of the Commonwealth, protected by willing and allied Minutemen, could be a vital way-stop on the “packaging and shipping” routes.

“So you _are_ capable of shutting up once in awhile.”

Deacon doesn’t startle, but it’s a close call. _Fucking pay attention, dumbass. You’re slipping._ He lazily rolls his head to the side to look at MacCready and gives him a smirk.

“With the right incentive, sure,” Deacon says. He waggles his eyebrows a little, and it has the desired effect: MacCready wrinkles his nose, makes a noise of disgust, and turns away. Point one for Deacon.

“Sorry about that,” Anthony appears at MacCready’s left, running a hand through his dark hair. He gives Deacon a lopsided smile. “So, a bit more than you were expecting?”

“General, you’re growing a city no one noticed. You’re redefining covert ops,” Deacon says. The surprise is genuine, but calculated: make it sound like the implications haven’t even caught up with him, give Anthony the upper hand (not that he doesn’t have it anyway), see if it gets Deacon more information. It’s old hat by now, and maybe even just habit. But if there is Institute influence here, or something else worth worrying about, maybe he can squeeze out some intel before everything goes tits up.

Anthony laughs quietly. The man laughs so easily for someone in his position. “You like this, you should see Sanctuary. Want a tour?”

\-------

Deacon’s given a spare room in the barracks, which is apparently doubling as a bunkhouse. The City of Starlight, as it turns out, is a work in progress, and really more salvaged scaffolding and wood planks than actual buildings. For now. Somehow, that doesn’t make it less impressive. 

They’re in the process of building what Anthony grossly mis-designates as a “clinic.” It looks a lot more like a small hospital. A bazaar of trade shops, most unfinished, circles a heavily walled-in water purifier. New settlers keep joining up and fitting into the spaces like pieces of a puzzle, so Anthony says. The giant building made half of old movie screen is all living quarters, and the only thing besides the bar, the general store, and the barracks that’s actually finished. 

Another night, Deacon would linger in the bar, listening to the settlers gossip, listening to Anthony chat with them. Hell, even MacCready seems like a familiar face here. But there’s a buzzing underneath Deacon’s skin that he’s been trying to ignore for hours, something coiling tighter and tighter in his chest the longer he sits still, like a thread being pulled taut and ready to snap. He made some very witty and charming excuses out of dinner, and now he’s here, holding some jerky he’s not going to eat, in a room he doesn’t belong in.

He plucks off his long leather gloves, and toes out of his boots. He yanks the overcoat off next, getting rougher and more urgent with each layer, clothing slapping loudly into the wooden walls. He’s in a simple-looking shirt and tan pants, still ballistic weave, when he slumps down onto the mattress. It’s clean and firm, a surprise. He runs a hand over the blanket tucked around it--thin, and fraying at the edges, but soft. Deacon reaches up with shaking fingers and finally pulls his sunglasses off. The bed frame creaks beneath him as he leans to set them on the nightstand.

When was the last time he slept on a mattress that wasn’t stained and flimsy, that didn’t smell of sweat and water and someone else? He leans over his knees, pressing his face into his hands. The tension he’s been fighting down all day creeps across his shoulders like fingers digging in, the way it always does in the dark, and the quiet. HQ is never quiet. Sleep is snatched in shifts just steps from their desks through the hum of terminals, the murmur of voices, the hammering of steel to fix broken pistols, the hiss of pain as another wound is stitched and wrapped. And those are the good nights, the nights that aren’t cut short by shouting and footsteps and being shaken wildly, desperately awake. _Get up, get up, there’s a courser, there’s a drop, there’s a synth._

_Run._

He shoves his palms hard against his eyelids, willing the starbursts of light to block out Roger’s face, blank and rotten, staring up from the floor. He doesn’t want to remember the grotesque sprawl of Songbird’s arms, the stiff slope of Tommy’s back. The blood in the dirt. He had tried so hard not to look. Talk, talk faster, shoot something, don’t look down, don’t look down.

It could have been him on that floor, an overturned desk in front of his corpse like a headstone. It could have been him at the last HQ, or the one before that. Maybe it should have been. How much would Desdemona have given to see Tommy stumble out of the sewer pipe instead of Deacon?

And now he’s sitting on his own mattress in some kind of fledgling city that looks like it has a future, with soft sheets, and a quiet night. While those unlucky bastards lay abandoned and forgotten beneath the earth. He should’ve shut himself in with them. He should’ve been faster, should’ve gotten them out--

He slumps back onto the bed, a horizontal slash across the blanket. He thinks suddenly of MacCready, leaning on a desk not three feet away from Songbird’s body, loading bullets. 

How does one become a man that cares so little about the pain he causes? That kills without pause, or regard? Callous, unfeeling, indiscriminate--looking down at the dead in disgust, like it was all just some inconvenience. Like he had better things to do than stomp through the mud of someone else’s tragedy.

_Yeah, that’s it, Deacon. It’s MacCready you’re talking about. It’s MacCready you hate._

Deacon turns his head to the side, squeezing his eyes shut, like that might silence his own thoughts. Just--just stop. It’s done. They’re dead, and Deacon isn’t, and it’s done. And Deacon’s going to get up tomorrow, and walk back into HQ, and keep fucking going, and keep his head up and his feet moving.

Don’t look down.

He dreams that night, hours in. Of wires, and sparks, and blood, and a voice he hasn’t heard in a very long time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ask me how many feelings I have about Deacon being among the only survivors of almost every HQ collapse. Fully subscribing to the "Deacon is John D." theory as well.
> 
> 2nd chapter is written and undergoing final edits. I'll post it once I've finished the rough draft for the 3rd chapter.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anthony joins the Railroad, and Deacon gets his assignment in turn. It’s totally routine, no big deal, it’s fine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone who’s read so far! I’m so happy to hear this is piquing interest for more than just me. This chapter is going to be a little exposition heavy but bear with me, there’s plenty of banter too.
> 
> Thanks once more to **serenityfails** for their encouragement, beta work, and general amazingness.

The moment the security door closes behind him, Deacon’s shoulders ease. Cool air drifts up from the old maintenance tunnel that will carry him to HQ’s back door, brushing the sticky skin at the back of his neck and between his fingers. No sound but the distant hum of old machinery. He’s a short walk from home. He leans his head back against the door, careful of his backpack, and breathes until he can’t stand another minute in the overcoat that had seemed like such a good idea yesterday. He yanks it off and drags the sleeves of the button-down underneath up his forearms. Then he pulls off his sunglasses, just for a moment, to wipe the sweat from under his eyes.

Morning had dawned foggy and slow across the old drive-in, but by the time Deacon was following Anthony and MacCready out the front gate, the sun had burned away the mist and set to work baking the pavement. At least Deacon had chosen a hat for this particular disguise. He abandoned the leather gloves about fifteen minutes in. And he’s absolutely never wearing these loose farmer’s boots again, if the angry blister on his heel has anything to say about it.

Worse than the heat had been the noise. Anthony’s fancy little Vault-Tec bracelet, as it turns out, not only slices, dices, and maps out the whole damn Commonwealth, it also tunes into radio frequencies. With remarkable clarity. And volume. For hours at a time.

The fact that they _didn’t_ get ambushed by an entire den of raiders that heard them coming four miles off is a stroke of luck Deacon knows he’s never going to have again. (It did attract a few bloatflies and a radroach, picked off easily from the roadside.) He’ll be hearing those tinny violin scales in his nightmares for weeks. Anthony gave him a very reasonable explanation for keeping it on that involved the Minutemen and probably saving the world--Deacon had gotten lost halfway through, imagining himself smashing the damn thing to pieces against the fallen tree they were climbing over.

Hell, he’d even have taken the bickering that started them out the gate over the whining strings. Maybe the music had been a punishment for that. On some level.

“MacCready’s got business in Goodneighbor, so we’ll split off at Bunker Hill,” Anthony had been explaining, tapping the Pip-Boy’s map as they rounded a rusty bus on the roadside.

“Sure, sure, places to go, people to kill, he’s a busy man,” Deacon said. 

“You know how it is,” MacCready said, leaning into view from Anthony’s left, “No shortage of mouthy know-it-alls that don’t want to do their own dirty jobs.”

“You know, you should consider starting a laundry business on the side. It must take some serious skill to get all that blood out of your clothes at the end of the day.” 

“All right, enough,” Anthony had snapped, cutting MacCready off two words into a retort. Deacon was ready to count that as a small victory until the radio blared to life. 

Deacon had spent most of the rest of the four hour walk--the part that wasn’t occupied constantly scouting the horizon around them for _something_ coming to attack them--plotting his escape. (Deacon wonders if he imagined the occasional wince from MacCready as the violins hit a particularly loud note. He’d kept turning to glance behind them every few seconds, alert and tense. Deacon really doesn’t want to have to give him credit for having decent enough instincts to be bothered.) The moment they arrived in Bunker Hill, Deacon barely waited for Anthony to finish suggesting they get lunch before insisting on running ahead to HQ. 

“Really need to get this back. I’ll meet you there.” 

Good fucking bye.

Deacon starts down the stairs toward the maintenance tunnel, carrying his coat in his arms. Well, all right, so working with Mr. Hotshot Former Army Spy was going to have some drawbacks. And the man was going to need to brush up on his stealth work. A lot. Deacon could tolerate a run here and there to get him used to things, and probably bumping into MacCready once or twice more, but then it’d be back to business as usual. Easy enough.

\-------

Anthony finally walks in right as Deacon’s getting to the good part. “And then the new guy patched me up, put me on his shoulder, and blasted his way through the rest of the complex. Synths everywhere.”

“Carrying you the whole time?” Desdemona raises an eyebrow. 

“Amazing, right?” Deacon gives her an easy smile. He doesn’t need her to believe him. He doesn’t expect her to, though he knows he could get her to swallow some much less extravagant lies with the right gravity in his voice and the right blank expression. But she’ll see the point through the obviously thin veil: he’s talking Anthony up, and if _Deacon’s_ trying to vouch for someone, that someone must have some skills worth vouching for. On the flip side, if Anthony happens to walk in at any point during the story (bravo on that timing, pal), he’ll assume Desdemona is a harder sell than she is. She gets some automatic respect and some more equal footing, the Railroad looks like a tightly run ship (not that it’s not, but there are a _lot_ of new resources on the line here), everybody’s suitably impressed with each other, everybody wins. 

“That’s one word for it,” Desdemona says, her focus shifting to Anthony. “Deacon told me you single-handedly secured Carrington’s prototype, disabled a minefield, and wiped out a hundred Gen-1s. So, is any of that true?”

Anthony looks taken aback. “Uh, mostly true. But there wasn’t a hundred of them and Deacon and MacCready were with me the whole way.”

“Embellishing the truth again, are we?” Desdemona shoots Deacon a look. 

_You’ll thank me later._ Deacon shrugs and gives Anthony a grin. “She would’ve fallen for it, you know.”

And it worked, anyway. “I was expecting Deacon to grab a full team, including Glory, to secure that prototype. But instead just the--three? Three of you cleared out the entire Switchboard.”

“You’d be insane not sign him up, Dez,” Deacon says. Probably needlessly, but he’s making a point here.

“You’ve certainly made an impression on Deacon. He’s never spoken about, or lied about, anyone so highly before.” Bingo.

She shifts her weight to one hip, looking thoughtful. “Your other companion--MacCready? Sounds capable. Would he be interested in--?”

“No,” Deacon and Anthony say at the same time. Deacon looks at him in surprise. Anthony doesn’t meet his eyes as he adds, “He’s more than capable, but he’s not what you’re looking for, and he’s got his hands full. But he’ll be discreet. Trust me.”

Deacon schools his face, but he can’t quite keep from raising his eyebrows. The way Anthony had spoken about MacCready when they met, Deacon figured they were close, which usually signaled an obvious blindspot. And, to be fair, Deacon doesn’t trust MacCready’s discretion any more than his compassion. But Anthony’s clipped evaluation is--fair. And MacCready was clearly loyal, to Anthony if nothing else. It was a pleasant surprise to hear Anthony would extend his authority to protect the Railroad’s secrets. If he was being sincere about it.

Desdemona nods, quicker to accept. “All right. And Deacon also said something about you--working for the DIA? Enough that you had access to the Switchboard system? Under any other circumstances, I’d never have believed him.”

Not entirely true. He knew exactly how to sell it. But Deacon said nothing. 

“Covert ops in the military,” Anthony says. 

“That’s--” Desdemona looks openly impressed. “I’ll be frank with you. That’s the kind of resource and skill we’d never have dreamed of finding. It cuts the time we’ll need to train you down to almost nothing.”

“Was I right, or was I right?” Deacon says with a smug smile. “I believe my exact words were ‘a few pointers and he’s good to go.’”

Desdemona rolls her eyes. “Even you didn’t see this one coming.”

“To be fair, I did try to get his military records.”

“Last question,” Desdemona says, ignoring him. “You’ve obviously done a great deal of work with the Minutemen. But you also have ties to the Brotherhood of Steel. Is your work with them--extensive?”

Anthony takes a moment to answer, eyes fixed on something over Desdemona’s shoulder. Weighing what to say, if Deacon was going to bet on it. There’s a subtle shift in his expression--a hint of tightness in his jaw, a twitch of his nostrils. Deacon knows Desdemona won’t even pick up on it. Deacon watches him with interest. 

Finally, Anthony glances at Deacon and gives him a small smile. “Cards on the table, you said, right? Yes, I’m--working with the Brotherhood. Well.” He hisses out a humorless laugh. “It’s more accurate to say I infiltrated them.”

Deacon slowly grins. “Oh my god. You’re playing them?” 

Anthony purses his lips. “It wasn’t exactly, uh, hard. Up until the blimp arrived, the Minutemen were the only group I’d really seen. I ran into a small recon team of the Brotherhood’s in Cambridge, purely on accident, and gave them a hand once I got a bare bones picture of who they were. I figured it couldn’t hurt to have them owing the Minutemen a favor. They tried to recruit me after, and I turned them down. Then the blimp came roaring in, and I--well, by that point, I’d been made the Minutemen’s General. My instincts said we needed to know exactly what they wanted and what they were planning. It made the most sense to do that from the inside, and it made the most sense for me to do it.” 

“Is that what you were planning here, as well?” Desdemona asks. Huh. Nice, Dez. Deacon is surprised he didn’t think to ask that himself.

Anthony tips his head back and forth, considering. “I would’ve tried it if I’d had to. But--” He glances at Deacon again. “What you’re trying to do doesn’t sound that different from what the Minutemen want to stand for. The Brotherhood--is a different story.” 

Deacon knows it could still be a play. It’d be the perfect play, actually: to admit that, get their guard down, get them to mistake charm for openness, and reward it with too much honesty. On the other hand, Deacon can’t help but see Tinker Tom’s computer in his head, the WINNER! WINNER! WINNER! screen that appears when Tinker actually manages to finish a level of that alien game flashing brightly through Deacon’s thoughts. _Jackpot_. Suck on a hubflower, MacCready.

And really, at this point, if Anthony _is_ playing them, with the kind of skills and resources and connections he has? They’ve already lost, one way or another. This is, for all intents and purposes, probably their last chance. Might as well risk it.

Desdemona seems to agree. She smiles slowly and extends her hand. “Welcome to the Railroad, _agent_.” 

Anthony smiles back, and shakes.

\---------

But while Desdemona is agreeable, she isn’t stupid. 

“Deacon, a word?” 

As Anthony--Bullseye, now, and wasn’t that fitting--starts his meet-and-greet, Desdemona leads Deacon to the back hallway, past the ratty mattresses in the corner and the rusty shelves against the wall. When they reach the escape tunnel door she finally stops and turns, arms folded.

She nods, slowly, half at him, half to herself. “You did good, Deacon. I had my doubts about this Wanderer project. But you did good.” 

The corners of his mouth twitch up. “Thanks, Dez.”

“But I know I don’t need to tell you not to trust too much of a good thing.” 

Deacon leans his shoulder against the brick wall, slipping his hands in his pockets. He lets out a breath, something like a laugh. “What, you don’t immediately trust someone with my skill set? That hurts, Dez.”

She gives a look. “That is exactly why I don’t trust him. If the Institute had someone like you on their side? Hell, we stay alive _assuming_ they have someone like you on their side.” 

Aw. “Nice to be needed. And feared.”

Desdemona lowers her voice. “One way or another, he’s going to need training. In our way of doing things, if nothing else. I’m sure you already know what I’m going to ask on that subject. You stalked him, you vouched for him, so you’re training him.”

_If he fucks us all, it’s on your head_ went unspoken, but not unheard. “Fair enough.”

“But I want you to stay with him,” she continues, leaning so the fluorescent light above them catches oddly on her hair. “The settlement you talked about, Starlight--the potential there, if this is on the level, is huge. And he said that wasn’t the only one?”

“At least one other that sounded built up, but I know there are more Minutemen settlements around. The Castle, of course. But others, too. I think the Slog’s with them now, and that robot garden people talk about,” Deacon says. 

Desdemona nods again. “I want you to look into this. Do what you do best. Get information on these settlements. Where they are, what they’re like. Stay close enough to watch Anthony, and how he operates.”

“Stay with him?” Deacon repeats. “As in, in the settlement? That’s--”

“It’s risky, more than a little. I know.” Desdemona eyes him.

“If I stay too long in one place, this could--”

“I know,” she says again. “I imagine you’ve got more than a few covers to risk, much as you keep us in the dark about it.” A little bitterness, there.

Deacon frowns. “You know why.”

“And you know as well as I do that we’re running out of options here. A silent partnership, need-to-know, could turn the tide for us.” She steps closer, and puts a hand on his arm. She’s close enough that she can probably see his eyes through the sunglasses, because she’s looking straight into them. “I know what I’m asking you to do, Deacon. And I’m not asking it lightly. If he’s Institute, or more loyal to the Brotherhood than he pretends, or if the Minutemen have an agenda we can’t begin to suspect--”

“I get it, Dez,” Deacon says. “I’ll do it, assuming he agrees to have me poking around.”

Desdemona looks at him a moment longer. Then she releases his shoulder and steps back. “All right. Good. Then it’s settled. I’ll expect regular reports.” She looks like she wants to say something more, but after a moment she looks away and steps around him, moving back down the hallway. She pulls the cigarette pack out of her back pocket as she goes. 

Live in a settlement. She was asking him to live in a settlement. Well, she was asking a lot more than that. But he’d never been afraid to die. Not since--not in a very long time. He didn’t completely understand how he hadn’t, by now. But to actually set up shop somewhere? Make himself part of daily life in a normal place, for more than just a few days? Deacon’s chest starts to feel a little tight. 

The life he leads suits him. He likes being fluid, impermanent, a face in the crowd, a shadow in the corner. He controls how much he’s noticed--and how easily he can slip away again--with a change of clothes and the flick of a stealth boy switch. It’s good. It’s easy. He knows how to do it well. Now, Desdemona is asking him to do the hardest thing he’s done in years, and not for the reason she thinks.

It’s not because she’s asking him to risk his life. It’s because she’s asking him to stand still and pretend to live it. 

“Bullseye,” he hears Desdemona’s voice from the other room, “now that you’ve met everyone, I have a proposal.”

Fuck.

\---

The only person more unhappy with the agreement than Deacon is MacCready.

The Third Rail is mostly empty when they arrive an hour later, save for one or two hungry drifters poking at the strange-smelling stew Charlie calls the House Special. (Deacon is almost positive it’s just radstag meat within an inch of spoiling and limp carrots simmered in water. Hancock really needs to start paying a hunter or two to pass through the town.) Deacon takes the bar stool that puts Anthony between him and MacCready and sticks to whiskey.

MacCready sits up ramrod straight once Anthony breaks the news, beer bottle freezing halfway to his lips. He stares. It’s a look that says, pretty succinctly, _I hope you know what the fuck you’re doing._

“‘Welcome to the team, Deacon, we’re so happy to have you,’” Deacon says in the highest pitch falsetto he can manage. Then he adds, in his normal voice, “Aw, thanks MacCready, you really know how to make a guy feel welcome.”

“Your idea of introducing yourself was dragging us into a sewer crawling with armed, angry robots and your dead friends, and I’m supposed to make you feel welcome?” MacCready says, glaring at him over Anthony’s shoulder. 

“You’re a mercenary. That’s not, like, business as usual?” Deacon says. 

“He has a point, RJ,” Anthony says quietly, which earns him a sharp look. He shrugs. “At least it wasn’t mole rats this time.”

MacCready pulls a face and finally resumes drinking his beer. Deacon leans forward, tilting his head to catch Anthony’s eye. “I have so much to look forward to.”

They sit quietly for a few moments, long enough for Deacon to feel tension sliding up his shoulders the way it had the night before. Everything feels—wrong. Like the whole room, the whole building, maybe all of Goodneighbor, had gone and shifted two inches to the left when he wasn’t looking. The stage is lit up the same bright blue-white as always, but it’s empty, and quiet. There’s music, but it’s coming from the small radio on the shelf behind the counter. The smell of the stew, a little over-boiled and a lot under-seasoned, sours his stomach. And he’s sitting here, at the bar, in the open, where anyone can see him, and anyone can pin him as part of this group. He’s wearing the clothes he left HQ in, which aren’t conspicuous but aren’t the ones he’d choose to fade into the background here. With almost no one around in the early afternoon, there isn’t a background to fade into. 

“You in there, Deacon?” 

And worst of all, they know his fucking name.

(It’s not his name, not his real one, but the only thing that one is good for is a headstone. He’d claimed this one, pulled it carefully out and shined it up and stretched it to fit. He gives it to none of his contacts, informants, or passing acquaintances. He has as many names as they have faces. He’s made a web of them, interwoven and intersecting and _fragile_. Plucking a single string might rip the whole thing down on top of him. He’s walking that string like a tightrope.)

“Say the word, General,” Deacon says, taking a casual sip of his whiskey. _Relax. Calm down. You’re going to have to get used to this now._ He files through his body muscle by muscle, making subtle shifts in his posture to smooth it, tucking his fingers up under his chin to keep them from drumming on the counter, hooking his foot on the stool leg to keep his knee from bouncing. Easy, easy, easy.

Anthony’s watching him. If he notices the performance, he doesn’t comment. “I was saying it’s a 7 hour walk back to Sanctuary. We won’t make it back before nightfall. I think we should stay here, head out in the morning.”

Deacon nods, chin bobbing in his hand. “Solid plan. My feet thank you profusely.”

Anthony huffs a laugh into his beer. Pale Ale, to MacCready’s Gwinnett Stout. After a moment, his attention slides back away from Deacon, and Deacon lets out a slow breath through his nose. _This a role. You’ve played a thousand. Come on._

He’s just going to have to get used to people that aren’t the Railroad knowing his name. He could try to get Anthony and MacCready (and, fuck, Garvey too) to use another name, but that risked a slip-up someone would have to explain, which would just draw more attention than it diverted. Maybe he could convince the settlers it was a surname, get some of them to call him something else. In a month or two, or however long he’s stuck with this bunch, he’ll go back under the knife, change his face again. 

That’s the first thought that makes the tightness in his chest ease. Instead of looking too closely at that, he swallows down the rest of his whiskey and waves Charlie over for another.

“How’s Daisy?” 

Anthony’s looking at MacCready, and MacCready seems to relax a little at the question, a faint smile on his lips. Deacon feels pleasantly ignored, like a door gently shutting between him and the others as they sink into a conversation that doesn’t concern him. That eases things, too. He keeps his thoughts clear and listens.

“Same as ever,” MacCready says. “She asked about you. You really made an impression with the—y’know, library and all.“

Anthony looks down at the counter. “Eh, it was worth it. I had good memories of that place too.” He sighs. “Sometimes I wonder if—” He pauses, shifts on the stool, then closes his lips.

MacCready tilts his head. “If what?” 

“Nothing. Was there, uh—“ Anthony makes a vague gesture with his fingers. “Any word?”

MacCready’s small smile returns. He pats an envelope Deacon hadn’t noticed sitting on the bar between them. “Daisy had it waiting. Haven’t opened it yet, but it’s—yeah.”

Deacon’s eyes flick to peek at the envelope, but he’s not surprised to find it face down. Worth a try. There’s something on the back, something that looks like a drawing, but he can’t make it out without leaning obviously closer. 

Anthony reaches out, clasping MacCready’s shoulder for a moment. “We’ll get there, man. I promise.”

MacCready nods, and looks briefly—well, emotional. It’s just a flicker, that same split-second softening as when Anthony had called him a friend, and then he’s looking away and grabbing his beer off the counter.

Deacon tries to puzzle it out in his head, because someone else’s problems are the best possible distraction from his own, and because he’s nosy. A letter from somewhere, someone. A significant other? A relative? Someone that isn’t here, so family that’s close enough to write in a way that makes MacCready smile like that but not close enough to have traveled with him? Or is there a reason he can’t be with them?

That’s as far as he gets before Anthony seems to remember he’s there and turns. Oh, Deacon knows that look. _Small talk._ Well, at least they’re back to a dance he knows the steps to. Deacon braces for the metaphorical music to start.

“So, Deacon, are you from the Commonwealth?”

He makes himself look contemplative. “Don’t know, exactly. When I was just a baby, an elderly couple found me in a field down near Revere, in a little basket. But they raised me as their own—“

“And now you can leap tall buildings in a single bound?” Anthony raises his eyebrow. “Think I know this one.”

“Are you saying it’s made up?” Deacon presses a dramatic hand to his chest. “You mean—they _lied_ to me? Good thing I never tried.”

“I might’ve actually fallen for it if you’d tried the radioactive spider bite. Considering.” Anthony gestures around them.

“I’ll remember that next time.” Deacon raises his glass in salute and then takes another sip. 

Anthony shakes his head. “Keep your secrets, then.” 

Deacon catches MacCready rolling his eyes behind Anthony. Deacon shrugs one shoulder and sets his glass back down, watching the way the neon light swirls in it. “Not much to tell. I know the area well, if that’s what you’re getting at. You may be shocked to learn I get around a lot.” He looks up. Step, ball, change and spin. Easiest way to get people off subject is to get them talking about themselves. “Sanctuary, that’s your—old neighborhood, right?” 

Anthony nods. “I didn’t grow up here. Moved around a lot for the army. I hadn’t actually been here that long, a couple years or so, when the, uh. You know. Bombs fell.” He tips his head a little, brow furrowing. He glances from MacCready to Deacon. “I don’t actually know—did Chicago make it? Is it still—?”

“Far as I know,” Deacon says at the same time MacCready nods. “I don’t get a lot of intel from that way. Only when it’s—uh, relevant.” 

“Right. Right that’s—yeah,” Anthony nods, more to himself than to either of them. He taps his fingers on the bottle. “Probably be even weirder, seeing it like...this.” Another hand gesture. “Anyway, we ought to get some rooms.”

Deacon watches him drink the last of his beer and stand. Someone else’s problems, right? Well, Deacon’s pretty solidly distracted now.

He’s never known the world to be anything but what it is: the husk of another time, life salvaged from death, people making farms and homes and towns in the ruins like grass growing through the cracks in the concrete. Sometimes it’s hard to believe it was ever anything else, that the rusted towers in the old city ever stood tall and clean and full. He doesn’t know what it would feel like to come from that world into this, to see everything you ever knew strewn like broken bones over the wasteland. Sometimes literally. Still, to have known life to be something beautiful and comfortable and alive with possibility, and then to wake up one morning to find it all irrevocably changed? Well, Deacon knows that kind of grief, at least.

His eyes linger on the rubble choking the old subway tunnel as he follows behind MacCready and up the stairs.

\----

“Oh thank f—god, finally,” MacCready sighs, lowering his rifle. The last of the raiders falls out the open doorway of what was once a hardware store with a wet, echoing squelch, blood fountaining from his bare chest, Deliverer’s bullet buried deep. Deacon blows dramatically on the barrel.

“And stay down,” he says. 

It’s the second raider party they’ve run into since leaving Goodneighbor early that morning. Which is an upgrade from the supermutants they barely managed to sneak past, and smelled only marginally better than the ferals they’d startled awake after that. Deacon is, quite frankly, _done_. At least he’d managed to convince Anthony to turn off the damn radio after the first raider ambush.

“We can’t finish that guard post soon enough,” MacCready mutters. He pulls his hat off and swipes at the sweat on his brow with his sleeve. “Can’t believe those f—idiots were stupid enough to get that close.”

“I really thought they would’ve gotten the hint the first time,” Anthony says. “If not from the Minutemen, at least from the damn deathclaw.”

Deacon stops examining the blood flecked across his t-shirt and looks up. “Okay, see, you can’t just say things like that and not let me in on the story.”

Anthony snorts and points to a large sewer hole at the end of the street ahead of them. The cover is laying several feet away, bent almost in half. The hole still has a jet of steam spurting into the air.

“The first time I ran into the Minutemen—hell, the first time I met anyone out here that wasn’t Codsworth—“

“Nope, pause, I absolutely have to know who’s going around the Commonwealth with a name like Codsworth,” Deacon says as they begin slowly moving up the street, sidestepping one of the raiders sprawled over the sidewalk. 

“He’s our—my. My Mr. Handy. From before the bombs,” Anthony says. He guides them to the other side of the street, away from the steaming death hole and around a rusted truck, toward a row of (hopefully) empty houses. MacCready moves ahead of them, carefully checking each.

Deacon looks back at Anthony. ”You have a robot butler.”

“Uh, yes?” 

“Do not ever, under any circumstances, tell Glory that,” Deacon says. 

“...Ah,” Anthony says. “I mean he’s not—I’m not actually using him as a butler, now, we got him to help with Shaun—“

“Does he call you ‘sir’ and ask if you want tea and cucumber sandwiches?”

“Uh, well—“

Deacon stops them both in the middle of the sidewalk. “If you have any fondness for your kneecaps and all ten fingers bending normal human directions, don’t tell her.” He turns to start walking again without waiting for a response. “All right, so, freshly de-iced and out of the Vault, nobody home but the butler bot, so off you go into town—“

Anthony takes a couple moments to catch up. “Right, yeah, straight into a shootout. Raiders everywhere. I’d walked out of the Vault maybe 24 hours before. I had no idea what was happening, who they were, why they were shooting—so I just sort of hid, skirting up a side alley, thinking maybe I could reach a road out of town.” 

Ahead of them, MacCready emerges onto the porch of the last house. He gives a thumbs up Anthony pauses to return.

“Anyway, Preston spotted me from the museum balcony, begged me to help. I had no idea if he was even the one I should be helping, but...” He shrugs. “Call it a hunch. Long story short, helped clear out the town and the museum, and just as we got outside to clear the next wave of reinforcements, that grate explodes open, and there’s this—this massive fucking _thing_ looking like Godzilla—er, you...won’t get that reference—“

Deacon debates telling him the truth for moment, weighs the possible lies to sandwich the context between. He settles on: “Saw a poster for it once.”

Deacon gets a lot of the references he makes, actually. The University Point library—or the parts not half-submerged in ocean water and claimed by mirelurks—held shelf after shelf of intact books, and two safes full of neat rows of holotapes, one with music, one with movies. It’s actually kind of shocking the Brotherhood never came knocking. Maybe they had, by now. As a kid he spent hours in the stacks, reading, watching, learning to sidestep egg nests and step lightly enough not to wake the mirelurks burrowed in the mud one floor below. Skills that would come in handy, later.

Anthony’s voice breaks through Deacon’s thoughts as they move beyond the last house on the street, MacCready watching them pass and trailing behind. They walk under a square of broken traffic lights and follow the road twisting up toward a scrubby line of trees. “So just imagine not ever seeing a thing like that outside a movie, or a nightmare, and thinking it’s something so—impossible, and surreal, and it’s stalking straight for you a lot faster than you’re ready for.” He shakes his head. “It’s a damn miracle there was power armor on the museum roof, because I’m pretty sure I’d have been dead, right there, right then.”

“That’s a hell of a welcome party,” Deacon says. Half-hidden by a faded billboard perched on the hill above them is a Red Rocket. Deacon hears the faint sounds of hammers pounding, and the distant straining of violin strings. 

“Probably kind of fitting, now that I think about it,” Anthony says. “Welcome to the future, it’s only going to get worse.”

Deacon snorts. “But at least we still have alcohol.”

“Hey! Stop there! State your—oh, afternoon, General, sir.”

“Good to see you, Torres.” Anthony waves to the guard atop his perch, just to the right of the billboard. The guard lowers his rifle.

They round a brown patch of bushes to reveal the old gas station looking much like Starlight had—half-finished, covered in scaffolding and wood planks and scrap metal, but ambitious, and carefully designed. Walls are rising bit by bit around the outer perimeter, with the beginnings of a couple guard towers. On the gas station roof, what Deacon presumes to be the barracks is taking shape: sturdy-looking walls, part wood and part metal siding, accessed only by a staircase on the side of the garage. High sight lines, a good view of both Concord and Sanctuary, and whatever lies beyond the hills southeast of them. Settlers are pounding away at the walls, above and below, while a radio somewhere inside the garage blares Minutemen Violin Concerto in F (This) Major.

“Couple more weeks and we ought to have this finished,” Anthony says, conversationally. 

“Do you have an army in every settlement?” Deacon asks, watching a couple settlers lift the wooden frame of another wall and begin nailing it into place.

“Only the major ones,” Anthony says. “Not enough of us for all that, and most of the settlements are small. This one was MacCready’s idea, actually.”

Deacon can feel the self-satisfied grin prickling at his back. He’s not about to turn around and give MacCready credit for picking decent sight lines. Someone would’ve thought to do that, eventually.

“That’s what you pay me for,” MacCready says. Deacon hears the rifle strap shifting.

“What, to figure out if you put guards up high they see good?” Deacon mutters.

“To keep the settlements safe,” MacCready says tightly. “Didn’t he tell you? I’m his head of security.”

Deacon stops walking and raises his eyebrows at Anthony. “You put a mercenary in charge of protecting your settlements? Seriously?”

Anthony looks at him for a moment, a look that lands somewhere between mild annoyance and faint amusement. Deacon gets that one a lot. 

“I put an ex-Gunner in charge of helping me fortify settlements against attacks from people like the Gunners,” Anthony says. “Seriously.”

Well that—made sense. Was kind of smart, actually. Smart enough that the only thing Deacon can think to say is, “Fair enough.”

“He wants us to assume he knows things, Anthony, remember? A _lot_ of things.” Deacon hears the stupid smirk in MacCready’s voice. He also hears the footsteps right behind him, and sidesteps just as MacCready leans in to shoulder-check him. MacCready stumbles, over-balancing. Deacon fixes him with a smirk of his own as MacCready struggles to right himself, rifle swinging across his back. 

“_Anyway_,” Anthony says pointedly, “Sanctuary’s this way.”

\-----

Color Deacon surprised when no five-story buildings sprout out of the trees to greet them this time. The neighborhood sprawls over a hillside, and was probably picturesque once, when the trees were green and the houses were whole and there wasn’t a long wooden wall separating them all from the creek below. They cross a rickety wooden bridge, arching like a cat’s spine over the water, with spots of new wood patching old to make a bright, unweathered contrast. It carries them through a gate much like Starlight’s, all heavy wood and barbed wire, swinging in. Yet another guard tower stands to one side, and the whole of the wall is lined with turrets every few feet. Deacon needs to remember to ask where they’re even getting so many turrets.

Inside the gate, though, it’s not difficult to imagine the houses as they once were. They’re hunched, and rust-rimmed, and patched haphazardly with metal and planks, but they’re standing, for the most part. A few foundations hold newer buildings too small to cover the concrete. 

The front half of the settlement seems devoted to trade shops of varying interests and, at the edge of a dirt trail that winds back into the forest, one house has been converted to a clinic. Further in, the houses turn back to their original purpose. One old foundation holds what Anthony deems a bunkhouse, standing one story taller than all the rest. And at the end of the street, where the pavement loops around a towering tree, one bare foundation holds a circle of mismatched chairs and benches with the charred remains of a bonfire in the center.

Just as they reach this odd little circle, a large dog comes barreling out of the house to the right, barking excitedly. Anthony laughs and kneels, letting the dog lick his chin. “I’m home, boy.”

The door swings open again and Preston Garvey emerges, though it takes Deacon a second to place him without the hat. He marches straight for Anthony, and Deacon notices Anthony stands immediately, arms half-lifted. Their embrace is tight, and lingering. When they pull apart, Anthony’s back is to Deacon, but Deacon can see Preston, and he’s lit up like a neon sign.

Naughty naughty, General.

Deacon had known they traveled together often; Garvey was almost always present whenever Deacon had been following Anthony around from the shadows. They seemed close, sure, but it made sense: Anthony had thrown his lot in with the Minutemen, and Garvey was more or less the only Minuteman still at it. Deacon definitely would have noticed a look like _that_. 

Honestly, Deacon had been wondering if MacCready wasn’t the one nursing a crush, the way Anthony seemed to tease out those flickers of softness on his face. Not to mention the protective streak a mile long. But when Deacon glances over to where MacCready is leaning, one elbow over the back of a dining chair, he just looks faintly—fond? Huh. Then the dog seems to take notice of him and comes bounding over, leaping up at his hip and almost knocking MacCready off balance. He laughs and begins scratching behind the dog’s ears. “All right, Dogmeat, I missed you too.” 

The whole thing is kind of unbearably domestic, enough to put some of Deacon’s nerves at ease. Which immediately makes him all the more nervous. He looks away.

“Preston, you remember Deacon,” Anthony says suddenly, a little louder than he needs to. Deacon smirks a little. He shakes the hand Garvey offers, nodding to him.

“Good to see you again,” Garvey says, schooling his face back to a polite smile.

_Don’t stop mooning on my account,_ Deacon thinks, letting the smirk stay in place.

Preston spares a wave for MacCready, who straightens a little and smiles. “Hey, Preston. Any excitement while we were gone?”

“If you call a few bloatflies and a lot of construction work exciting,” Garvey says. He looks at Deacon and then back at Anthony. “So I take it you made a decision.”

Anthony nods, and Deacon is a little surprised that Garvey doesn’t press him further, after the grilling Deacon got from MacCready. He looks at Deacon for a moment, not cold, but careful, and then gives him a small smile. He nods to Anthony.

“Deacon’s going to stay in Sanctuary awhile, show me the ropes, get to know the Minutemen in turn,” Anthony explains. “See about some potential down the line, maybe.”

“An alliance?” Garvey raises his eyebrows. “Well...whatever you think, General. We’ll never turn down more help.” He says the last to Deacon. Deacon doesn’t say _Every one of your settlements has ninety-three turrets and a barracks full of guards, you do not need help._ But he thinks it, very loudly, as he gives Garvey a polite smile.

“Only thing is, we’re a little tight on space. We just had someone take the last room in the bunkhouse this morning,” Garvey says. 

“Oh,” Anthony says, frowning. “But that only leaves—“

He clears his throat and looks over at MacCready, who drops his hand away from Dogmeat’s ears and slowly stands. “Sh—Crap. There’s really _nowhere_ else?”

“We’ll have a couple more shacks up in a few weeks, but—“ Garvey shrugs. “Space is tight. We’ve got to finish up the wall first.”

MacCready’s jaw visibly tightens and he looks away. 

Deacon slowly folds his arms across his chest. “Someone want to let me in on the good news? I’m not exactly picky about sleeping arrangements, I’m usually sleeping in a catacomb these days.”

Anthony looks, of all things, a little sheepish. “The only room we have left right now is—uh, in MacCready’s house.”

Oh. 

Fuck.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1) I know the way the back entrance to the Church is designed in-game, you can’t reach it from the outside. But whatever, Deacon can climb a little and it makes more sense to me to not always use the more obvious Church entrance.
> 
> 2) I absolutely couldn’t resist poking fun at being able to travel with the radio on. I never do, but it’s one of the most reasonable narrative explanations for the sole survivor knowing when and where settlements are in trouble when you take fast traveling out of account. Not pictured in this chapter: every settlement also has a ham radio setup to communicate when they’re in trouble.
> 
> 3) I want to believe MacCready was able to stay in contact with Duncan, even if only in brief letters and gifts. That distance is gut-wrenching.
> 
> 4) I came up with the headcanon of University Point having a decently in tact library to explain how Deacon makes so many references or offhand comments in game that he shouldn’t reasonably know about. It’s kind of fuzzy what is and isn’t common knowledge in this world, so to fill in the gaps it’s kind of fun to imagine Deacon spending his childhood pre-gang watching old movies and reading old novels.
> 
> Chapter 3 draft is finished and just needs a little more poking, will post once I have a draft finished for Chapter 4.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Deacon tries to settle in to settlement life and make some connections. Kinda hard when your roommate won’t stop hovering.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks as always to **serenityfails** for beta work and cheerleading. And thank you all for the lovely comments! I’m honestly just happy if even one other person finds this interesting so I’m really glad you all are enjoying the ride.

Well, at least Sanctuary has a bar.

Deacon spends most of the first night in it, because if he can’t fade into the background, then he can at least tune it out. It’s the wrong instinct--_keep your ears open, keep your eyes open, keep your senses sharp_\--but fuck it, if it’s as safe here as all of MacCready’s boasting, one night racing his thoughts to the bottom of a whiskey bottle isn’t going to get him killed. (It might. It might absolutely get him killed. He should care about that, probably. But he feels like every nerve ending in his body is a whipping, sparking livewire and if he can just drown out that static crackle in his ears he might start feeling like a human again. Or stop feeling at all. He’s not picky.)

It’s not that it’s not a _nice_ house he’s going to be sharing with someone he can’t stand. Like the room he’d been given in the barracks at Starlight, his room here has a sturdy, clean bed and another worn-but-soft blanket to go with it. This one even has shelves, a dresser, a desk. There’s space, more than he’d had to call his own--even sort of, kind of temporarily--in years. Maybe a decade.

He’d slapped down enough caps to get the bartender to leave the bottle, and he pours himself a third glass as he tries to remember the last space that was his. Only his. He squints at the splashes of colored light on the wall from the bare bulbs overhead, considering. The Farm, maybe. Three HQs ago. That broom closet, or maybe it was a pantry, that he’d dragged a ratty sleeping bag into. He’d hit his head on the shelves along the walls every time he sat up too quickly. He’d filled those shelves, though--knick-knacks, clothes, hats, wigs. Bits and pieces, some practical, some just nice to look at.

Well. They’re ash in the middle of a scorched field, now. He takes a long drink, letting it burn its way down his throat. That was the last time he’d gotten comfortable.

It had become instinct to share space, after that. For all of them, really. Not much reason for privacy at HQ. You have your quick hookups at the bar you find them in and you keep the Railroad out of it. You sleep in the common room with everyone else, in the hours you steal between shifts. Separation means that many more seconds between you and fair warning--between you and escape--if it comes to that. 

It almost always comes to that.

So Deacon’s used to sharing space, as a general rule. And used to temporary space: the nights he spends away from HQ are spent in inn rooms, or the occasional abandoned house. Camping, if he’s desperate. No fixed points. Nothing that belongs to him by the time the sun rises. And it suits him just fine, passing in and out like a ghost, here and gone with hardly a ruffled sheet. Things he holds onto for too long tend to disappear. Better to beat them to it. 

But it’s more than a couple nights in the Rexford this time. He’s stuck here. Sharing a house. With fucking MacCready. Who apparently has no intention of leaving him alone in the house for a single fucking second.

Deacon leans over the counter, rubbing his forehead. It had taken him all of ten minutes to unpack his things, as he hadn’t brought much more than a wide selection of clothing, his wigs, and the odd accessory or twelve. That done, he’d wandered back down the hall to find MacCready…_hovering_, leaning against the back of the couch with arms folded and eyes narrowed, watching every movement Deacon made. 

There’s a very reasonable part of Deacon--a very small, very quiet part buried under about seven different thick layers of sarcastic, petty, and stubborn--that says well, fair enough. Had it been Deacon’s house some stranger was carving out space in, he wouldn’t have left them alone either. (Not that he’d be keeping incriminating papers or a Railroad Code Phrase Guidebook--_Now You Too Can Sell Out Your Annoying Roommate to the Institute in Three Easy Steps!_\--just laying around, begging to be stolen. Though if MacCready wanted at his wig collection, well, it would just about make Deacon’s year to walk in on that.) And granted, they’re not exactly splitting wings in a mansion. One room serves as the kitchen, dining room, and living room, another’s been completely overtaken by tools and gun parts, and then there’s a bathroom and their bedrooms. Running into each other is more than inevitable, it’s unavoidable. 

But MacCready had to go and make it weird.

Deacon doesn’t like feeling _seen_ on a good day. So eyes burning a hole in the back of his head with even a slight twitch of muscle made his skin crawl. He’d lasted about ten minutes pretending to examine MacCready’s apparently extensive collection of Blamco Mac and Cheese (seriously, how much of that crap can one guy possibly stand?) before fleeing straight out the front door with a mumbled excuse. 

And here he is, slouched on a stool at the furthest end of the bar, draining a liquor bottle and not even so much as eavesdropping on the couple a few seats down, like the go-getter he is. He takes another hefty swallow of whiskey, ice sliding against his teeth. 

It’s going to be a long couple of months. 

————

On the second day, Anthony just has to go and have farm-saving, raider-killing business to attend to, leaving Deacon with two options. Sit in the house getting stared at by MacCready and wait, or snoop around the settlement and have some damn breathing room. So he gets to work.

He puts on one of his more weather-beaten coats and heads straight for one of the converted shops in the center of the settlement, the one with a wood plank sign over the old carport painted to read _Hanging by a Thread: Custom Clothing and Tailoring_. Because Deacon knows which side his bread is buttered on--getting in good with someone who makes a wide variety of clothes almost trumps rooting out the town gossip in his line of work. Fortunately for him, Anne Hargraves turns out to be both. 

It’s not hard to get on her good side. A few carefully crafted complaints about the fabric of his coat--”I think Fallon’s is really slipping, look at this hole. All I did was reach for something and _rip_, straight up the seam!”--and a few choice compliments--”See, this is what I need, something with real craftsmanship! Is this your work? You don’t say!”--and she was calling him darling inside half an hour. (He’d actually fished the coat out of an old trunk in an abandoned building, but he wasn’t about to tell her that.)

Still got it.

“Are you quite certain you want to bother with patching the hole, darling? Oh, I can make it good as new, of course, good as new--you’ll never know it was there! And I’d be happy to do it, believe me, it wouldn’t be any trouble at all, only I think you’d look just devastatingly handsome in something a little newer, don’t you?” Anne flits around the counter toward the mannequin Deacon had been pretending to admire.

“Well, if you really think this ugly mug stands a chance.” Deacon gives her his most charming smile.

“Oh, you’ll be a dish! Simply dreamy.” She pulls the coat carefully from the mannequin and holds it up to his chest. “Absolutely perfect, dear, really! You won’t even think twice about visiting Fallon’s again after you see yourself when I’m through with you.” She pushes him toward a pair of doors he quickly learns are fitting rooms. “Now I know you’re new here, came in with the General, didn’t you? What did you say your name was again?”

“Will. William Deacon, but everyone just calls me Deacon.” 

“But William is such a lovely name! It’s settled, I’ll hear nothing else. Now go on, William, put this on and let me see.” She opens one of the doors for him.

“You, uh, you seem like the type that knows everyone,” Deacon says casually through the door. He peels off the old coat.

“Comes of working in radio, darling. Maybe you’ve heard of us? The Charles River Trio? We broadcast out on WRVR. I’ve been doing radio plays for ages, so it comes quite naturally to meet people, you see.” 

“I thought your voice sounded familiar!” Deacon says. He’d caught the broadcast a few times. It was awful, but in that way that manages to circle back around to being entertaining, if only because you can’t believe it’s actually that bad, and neither can the performers. He slips the new coat up over his shoulders and studies his reflection in the tarnished mirror. A little baggy in the sleeves, but not bad. “Seems kinda out of the way for you, living here.”

“It was time for a change. Another of our members was kidnapped, you know. Dreadful business, simply awful. Super mutants! Can you even think of it? Trapped for days on the top of Trinity Tower by those horrid brutes. The General was the one to rescue him, and something like that--well, darling, it changes you, puts things in perspective. I’ll always love radio, of course, but sewing was my first love, and it was time to return to it.”

Deacon emerges from the fitting room, and Anne squeals and claps. “Oh, what did I tell you, dear? It’s perfect, as though I made it just for you! We’ll take these sleeves in a bit--” She begins fussing over the fabric, plucking some pins from a pouch she must have grabbed while he was changing. 

“Seems like Anthony does a lot of heroics,” Deacon says, watching her work.

She carefully pinches the fabric and pokes the pins through. “Oh, he’s a peach. Can’t imagine what terrible things he’s been through, searching for his son, all the things that Diamond City paper printed about him. But he’s just a peach, a real sweetheart, absolute heart of gold. Hold still, darling, there you go. And that beau of his. They’re just perfect.”

“Beau?” Deacon prompts.

“Oh yes, surely you met him? Mr. Garvey? Lovely man. It’s all very hush hush, of course. Nothing to distract from their work. Not a secret, mind you, but they keep to themselves. It’s positively romantic.” She actually sighs. Deacon very admirably does not roll his eyes.

“And what do you make of his, uh, security guy?” Deacon asks as she moves around to his other side, her blue skirt swishing around his legs.

“Oh, Mr. MacCready?” she says. “He seems friendly enough. I’ve been trying to convince him to let me get my hands on that duster of his for weeks. The state of it! Absolutely appalling.”

Deacon snorts. “And he refused? With this kind of talent?” He holds up his pinned sleeve for emphasis.

“Now don’t jostle the pins, dear. I swear, these rugged wasteland types. Function over fashion, and all that rot. Nothing wrong with function _and_ fashion, but of course no one asks _me_.” 

“A crime, truly.”

She sighs again. “Well, I suppose he can be forgiven, what with his upbringing.” 

“Oh?” Deacon tilts his head.

“Oh yes. Diane said he grew up in some sort of cave, nothing but a bunch of children. No adults at all. Can you imagine?” 

Oh, _what the fuck_.

“Hardly surprising he ended up with one of those awful gangs. The Gunners, I think it was. Of course from what I hear, that was only out of desperation, and he really does seem like a decent sort. There we are! Now, let’s see about the waist, just hold still, dear--”

Deacon’s mind is racing. A cave full of kids? How the hell had they survived? He’d mentioned the cave before, but the rest? Had to be one of those stories that just warped over time. But the Gunners, that was more along the lines of what he’d already guessed. As Anne coaxes him to lift his arms, he says, “Desperation for what, do you think?”

“What was that, dear?”

“MacCready. You said he joined the Gunners out of desperation.”

“Oh! Well, I don’t know the details, of course, but I overheard him talking with the General once. He’s got some family back home, wherever he’s from, and they’re rather in need. A sick child, I think it was? Naturally I wouldn’t dream of prying--”

“Oh right, naturally,” Deacon says as she straightens and surveys her handiwork.

“Well, anyway, I’m positively spoiled for good taste now that you’ve come along! Finally, someone who appreciates fine tailoring. Now let’s get this off, darling, careful now. Of course there’s also Anita down the street, coming in to moon over the dresses. She’s positively desperate for Maria to notice her. Oh! But don’t tell her I told you--”

Deacon leaves the shop a few caps lighter, and armed with gossip about more than half the settlement. And curious. Really curious. Because--not that it really matters, but--if MacCready _had_ grown up in his own personal _Lord of the Flies_, Deacon absolutely wants details.

————

He doesn’t get around to asking, because on the third day, he’s had it. 

MacCready’s sitting on the edge of one of the armchairs in the living room, watching him warily, and Deacon just drops himself down on the couch across from him and mirrors his posture. “Listen. Points for vigilance, evil never sleeps, blah blah blah. But I’m not going to snoop through your stuff. I’m sure as shit not going to steal anything. Face it, pal.” He leans forward. “You’re just not that interesting.” 

He plucks a comic book from the pile splayed over the coffee table and sits back as MacCready’s eyes narrow at him. Deacon glances at the cover. Grognak, Issue 3. Well, points for taste. The comics were just about the only part of MacCready’s interior decorating that had any color whatsoever and weren’t otherwise related to some form of weaponry. The built-in shelves on either side of the hallway held box after box of ammo, and gun mods, and a few spare knives and pipe pistols. Deacon is starting to feel like he lives in a damn armory. Would it kill the guy to put up a vase? Hell, even a dead flower would’ve livened it up.

Deacon bends his head so the angle of his sunglasses make him look like he’s reading. “Don’t you have important settlement protecting to get up to?”

“Exactly what you’d say to get me out of the house so you can snoop,” MacCready says, folding his arms over his chest. God, he really looks like a toddler two seconds from throwing a tantrum when he does that. Not that Deacon’s any expert.

Or any more mature. (What? Two can play that game.) He scoffs, rolling his eyes even though the effect is lost under the shades. “Please. I’m a professional. If I wanted you out of the house, you’d never know I was behind it.”

MacCready frowns. “Not helping your case.” 

Deacon flips a page. He’s read this one, probably a dozen times. He’s not really reading it now, but it makes him look disinterested. “What am I even going to supposedly steal, two hundred year old microwave dinners? I don’t like this any more than you do and I don’t want to be here any longer than I have to. I have better things to do than root out your top secret porn stash.” 

“Didn’t stop you from spying on me before.”

Deacon does look up from the comic then, raising his eyebrows. “It’s part of my job to track down potential threats. You’re going to tell me, oh grand master security expert, that a new mercenary showing up out of nowhere with the Institute famous for just dropping synths anywhere they want doesn’t qualify as a potential threat?” 

MacCready finally looks away, glaring at the back of the couch instead of Deacon. “I didn’t get this far by letting a ‘potential threat’ talk me into letting my guard down, either.”

Yeah, all right. So he wasn’t a complete idiot. “Suit yourself. If you want to bask in my sparkling company all day every day, I can hardly blame you.” 

“I don’t see why you have to hang around here anyway, don’t _you_ have important Railroad things to do?” MacCready says.

“I’m doing them,” Deacon says, flipping another page. 

“So sitting on your ass reading my comic books is helping liberate robots, or whatever the hell it is you people do?” MacCready folds his arms and squints at him. 

“Synths,” Deacon says, not bothering to keep the annoyance out of his tone.

“What’s the difference? They’re manufactured machines made of plastic and wires, I saw enough of their innards to last a lifetime, thanks to you. So how’s that different from a Mr. Handy? Actually, please let me know if you start trying to liberate Assaultrons and Sentry Bots because I want a front row seat.” He smirks, smug. 

Deacon turns the comic face down in his lap. “You are a seriously bigoted asshole, you know that? The Gen-3s are the ones we’re working to save. They’re functionally no different from humans. They have a heart, lungs, a brain, blood. They eat and sleep and breathe like everyone else. They have thoughts and feelings. No plastic. No wires. You literally cannot physically tell the difference.” He says the last slowly, like he’s throwing each word at MacCready’s upturned nose.

“That just makes it way f--freaking creepier.” 

“Jesus, MacCready, they’re humans in every way that matters. They weren’t born, but they’re alive. They should get to choose what they do with that life, not exist to do the Institute’s bidding.” Deacon feels himself sliding forward on the couch, tension stiffening his limbs.

“Really sounding like some propaganda here, man,” MacCready says, shaking his head.

“It’s really alarming to me that ‘people deserve freedom and dignity’ sounds like propaganda to you, _pal_.” Deacon tosses the comic back onto the coffee table. “But then again, I shouldn’t really be surprised, right? I mean, people are only worth the amount of caps you’ll get for killing them to you.” 

“Oh fu--_screw_ you!” MacCready snaps, straightening. “Like you’re some kind of paragon of morality? You’ve shot plenty of people right in front of me since we met, and no--” He cuts Deacon off half a syllable in--”don’t even fucking try and say it’s not the same. Synths aren’t even people!” 

“I _just_ told you--”

“You just told me they’re some kind of Frankenstein’s monsters that you want to turn loose on the Commonwealth and _I’m_ somehow the bad guy for thinking that’s terrifying?”

“They’re _not_ monsters, can you please just--”

“Everyone knows about Broken Mask, Deacon--”

“For fuck’s sake--”

“No, fu--forget this, I’m done,” MacCready stands abruptly, marching around the couch to a peg on the wall near the front door, where his rifle hangs from its strap. He starts to head for the door, then stops. He turns, glaring down at Deacon, pointing a finger. “If I find a single thing, a _single_ thing, an inch out of place when I get back--”

“You’ll torture me in nine different horrible ways and then shoot me right between the eyes with terrifying precision. Consider me extremely threatened,” Deacon says. “Kindly fuck off.”

The door slams hard enough to rattle the windows. Deacon wants to kick the coffee table over, and rip all the stupid comic books to pieces. That absolute fucking _asshole_. And this was the kind of person Anthony surrounded himself with? What the hell was he thinking? Tactical advantage or not, MacCready was a hotheaded, inconsiderate lia-_fucking_-bility. 

Deacon stands. Shoving all the furniture over isn’t going to solve anything, even if it would feel seriously fucking satisfying. He considers the subtle approach, like leaving MacCready’s bedroom door ajar, just to mess with his head. He’d be tearing his room apart for days, wondering what Deacon had touched, what he might have taken. But Deacon isn’t actually confident that MacCready _wouldn’t_ shoot him right between the eyes with terrifying precision, alliance be damned. He settles for turning all of the instant food boxes backwards and upside-down on the shelves, then nicks a bottle of bourbon from the bottom shelf and stalks back to his room, locking himself inside. 

————

It’s a relief when word of a dead drop finally comes. A runner--Deacon barely recognizes him, what’s the name, starts with a B--stands panting on the stoop when MacCready opens the front door. 

“Do you--have a--geiger counter--?” the boy rasps out. Deacon’s already halfway to the door when MacCready looks over his shoulder. 

“That definitely sounds like your problem,” MacCready says, retreating into the kitchen with an eye roll. 

“Sorry kid, mine’s in the shop,” Deacon says, stepping out onto the front stoop and closing the door behind him. “Got something for me?”

The kid hands him a crumpled note. He leans against the house while Deacon unfolds it and reads.

_D--_  
Hope you’re well. Uncle Randolph misses you. Visit him in Lexington when you get the chance. Write back soon.   
\--DB 

Oh shit yeah, finally something interesting. Randolph Safehouse? Alive? After all this time? 

“Thanks, kid,” Deacon says, and fumbles through his pockets for a few caps. “Grab a drink, if you want. On me. Tell ‘em message received.”

“Th-thank you,” the runner says, catching the caps. New guy, and they made him run all the way here. Or something else had. Blaze, that was his name. Little on the nose.

Deacon knocks on Anthony’s door.

“Randolph went dark months ago. We gave it up for a loss,” Deacon explains as they pick their way through the decidedly much quieter streets of Concord not an hour later. Dried brown stains baking into the sidewalk are the only hints left of their shootout. As they round the corner in front of the museum, Deacon sees a cloud of smoke twisting into the air just beyond a few empty houses. A couple of Minutemen stand where the street winds out of town, staring down toward it.

“If they aren’t dead,” Deacon continues, “this is as close to a god damn victory as the Railroad ever gets these days, besides successfully shipping a ‘package’ out.”

“And if it’s not them--” Anthony says.

“It’s a giant, red-letter, neon-sign Trap with a capital T, yeah.” And okay, maybe Deacon’s a little too desperate to be on the road again--or have something to shoot with impunity--if that idea isn’t actually dampening his enthusiasm about this.

As they approach the end of the row of houses, Deacon can finally see down the hill. An old junkyard sits rusting in the sun, a circle of broken down trucks and shipping crates. In the center sits a burning pile of dead raiders lit up like Diamond City on Christmas morning. Well, that’s certainly one way to send a message. The two Minutemen guarding the ridge salute Anthony as he and Deacon pass, tipping their hats. 

They get another mile outside the town before Anthony glances over at Deacon and gives him a curious sort of smile. “So, are we passing the test?”

Deacon stops scanning the trees on either side of the road ahead of them and looks back at Anthony over his shoulder. “Sorry?”

“Come on, Deacon. We both know you’re feeling us out as much as we’re feeling you out.”

“Well, that metaphor went interesting places,” Deacon smirks. “Word around town is you’re taken, Bullseye, unless it’s more of an open thing--”

“You know what I mean,” Anthony says, with an exasperated tilt of his head.

“Your loss. I could definitely kiss you for not turning on that please-attack-us-now radio beacon on your wrist, so consider section one of the test passed,” Deacon says. He sidesteps some fallen brush and goes back to scanning the road. “Sanctuary is… well come on, you don’t need me to tell you it’s impressive.” He pauses. “Welcoming committee could use a little work, though.”

Anthony snorts. He ducks under a leaning pylon and then drifts back closer again. “I was actually half expecting to come back to one of you in the infirmary.”

“It was touch and go,” Deacon says. That does bring up something that’s been bothering Deacon, though, like an itch at the back of his head he just couldn’t quite reach. “Listen, since we’re on the subject--not that I’m trying to look a gift horse in the mouth here, but what tipped the scales in the Railroad’s favor when someone you trust, like MacCready, is loudly calling bullshit the whole way into it?” 

Anthony looks thoughtful for a moment. Then his shoulder twitches up in a sort of half-hearted shrug. “Just because I trust him doesn’t mean we agree on everything. I’d actually be kind of concerned if we did.”

“Really,” Deacon furrows his eyebrows. Wasn’t really the answer he was expecting. He moves away to round a rusted out car splitting the road between them. 

“To make a really long story short,” Anthony says when they wander back together in the center of the road, “I’ve had a hell of a lot of chances in my life to see what blind faith in blinder leaders looks like, and where it gets you. I’ve got a lot of lives depending on the decisions I make these days. That’s too important for me to go surrounding myself with people that won’t question the calls I make.”

“Well we’re going to get along great, then,” Deacon says. 

He keeps a lazy grin in place as Anthony laughs, but beneath the sunglasses, Deacon watches him with genuine surprise. The man has a golden opportunity to become the next Elder Maxson. He’s got a clear abundance of resources, and not much standing in the way of getting more. Plus he’s got more than a few settlements entirely dependent on his support. It’d be the easiest thing in the world to threaten them into total submission--_step out of line and kiss your supplies and defenses goodbye, worship me in all my pre-War glory, appease my wrath with everything you own._ Or something like that.

But all right, Deacon knows Anthony has some restraint, and he’s clever, if not always careful. The subtle approach isn’t off the table, and makes more sense. He acts the affable, benevolent leader while he quietly grows his empire and bides his time, stockpiling and sweet-talking and lowering everyone’s guard brick by brick. Make it their idea to come to him. _Oh, you saved our livelihood from those raiders, we owe you everything, take whatever we have, no please, we insist._ By the time they realize exactly what’s happening, they’re too desperate and indebted to question him.

See, Deacon’s learned a thing or two over the years. Nobody, _nobody_, is nice for free. Not if they want to survive. Not in this world. This world learned its lesson centuries ago. And maybe Anthony had some catching up to do, but he isn’t stupid, and no one gets as far as he has on pure altruism. 

Do they?

Well, time for Railroad training session one, then. There are ways of finding out exactly what kind of smart Anthony is, what kind of lessons he has or hasn’t learned in his time in defrost. If Anthony sees right through it, his reactions will tell Deacon exactly the kind of man he’s dealing with. As they pass by Drumlin Diner and Anthony waves through the windows to Trudy, Deacon says, “So you really are all about, y’know, fighting the good fight, huh? Taking your leadership seriously, trying to build a better world, all that?”

“Trying to be,” Anthony says, turning back to him. “This isn’t really a role I ever saw myself in, or even wanted. But I think--I hope--I can do some good with it.”

Deacon puts on a carefully calibrated smile. “You sound just like me when I was starting the Railroad.” He doesn’t even look at Anthony as he says it, just drops it like a grenade into the conversation as he casually steps to the side and waits for it to explode.

Anthony stops walking. “Hang on, _you_? You founded the Railroad?”

Deacon doesn’t pause, and lets Anthony jog to catch up. “Figure it’s time for you to learn the Big Secret, now that I’ve seen for myself the kind of outfit you’re running. Meet you on an even playing field, so to speak. Yeah, it was me. Me and Johnny D. and Watts, maybe 60, 70 years ago now? After awhile, you lose count.” He finally looks over, still holding onto that smile, letting it turn a little smug. “I know what you’re thinking and yes, the face changes I mentioned are for more than just keeping anonymous. Truth is, it takes a lot of work to keep this mug handsome.”

Anthony studies him, and Deacon turns back to the road, nonchalant. Finally, Anthony asks, “So, Desdemona--?”

“Yeah, we let everyone think she’s the big boss. She calls the ops, gives the ra-ra speeches. But it’s just an act. Didn’t you notice when I say the word, she does a 180? ‘Hey, there’s an intruder.’ ‘No, I vouch for him.’ ‘Then welcome.’ Every time. It works best that way. Gives me room to maneuver.” Deacon stares ahead to give the impression he’s lost in thought. “We’ve come a long way since the beginning. We’ve done a lot of good, saved a lot of synths. But we’re about more than that. We’re the last and only line of defense between the Institute and the Commonwealth. Hell, maybe even the world. Or we were, until now.”

Anthony nods slowly. Deacon keeps his face forward, but turns his eyes to the side to peek at him. He looks...like he’s processing, turning the words over like stones to find the radroach underneath, maybe, if he’s as sharp as Deacon’s giving him credit for. That’d be the lesson Deacon would be trying to teach him, if he really was new to this. 

“So, any perks to being close to the big boss, then?” Anthony says after a moment, the corners of his mouth twitching up. Yeah, there we go, Deacon knows he’s made. Anthony doesn’t sound angry. In fact, he sounds amused. And he’s letting Deacon take it as far as he wants to. See where he does, and act accordingly, is apparently the plan. Wise. So he’s the type that will see through the simple tricks, but wait to see if they’re actually threats, or what the motive is. Cautious, but calm. That’s good if he really is on their side. If he really is the man he’s presenting himself to be. Complicated, if he’s not.

“Now that I don’t have to hide, sure,” Deacon says, stepping over a large pothole cracking through the guard lines on the side of the road. “Tinker Tom will set you up. But the best perk is seeing behind the curtain. People think our missions are all about synths. But there’s more going on. We’re building a better, brighter Commonwealth. The Railroad really is the best, noblest organization that’s ever lived. We…we’re…” He dissolves into laughter, stopping on the edge of the road. “I can’t keep up with this bullshit.”

“Oh come on, you were doing so well,” Anthony says, breaking into a smile. “I mean the part about your age and the face changes? Genius.”

Deacon grins back at him. “There’s only so much idealism this shriveled black heart of mine can pretend to hold. So, clearly, you’ve already learned lesson one: don’t swallow the bullshit they’re going to spoon-feed you. Ignore the verbage, and look at what they’re doing. What they want you to do.”

“Yeah, I--” Anthony breathes out something like a laugh but it’s got a bitter edge to it. Something that definitely has a story behind it. “I learned that one well before the bombs fell.”

Deacon wants to ask, but hesitates. Could be an excellent place to get played back. Make an inviting, open-ended sort of statement like that and then feed Deacon his own medicine, some careful lies about the old days, lower his guard. Not like Deacon could really contradict him. So he settles for, “That so? Maybe you’re more ready for this century than I gave you credit for.”

Anthony sighs a little, and begins strolling down the road again. “It might look a lot more fucked up now, but… in the end, not a whole lot has changed. People are still--” he pauses, then chuckles, “--well, people. Selfish, dangerous, territorial. Kind, hopeful, optimistic. Messy, and complicated.” 

He looks out toward the horizon, where the tall specter of the Corvega factory’s tower is rapidly growing clearer and closer. Deacon itches to press him, but keeps quiet. “Honestly, it’s almost a little refreshing, when the bad guys just show up on your doorstep half the time and do exactly what you expect them to do: try to kill you and take your stuff.”

“That’s easy mode, though, is my point here,” Deacon says, steering the conversation back toward neutral ground. “Not every Big Bad is that obvious about it. The really scary ones look exactly like friends, and they’ll do whatever it takes to make you believe they are.” 

Deacon realizes, sudden enough that his mouth clicks shut on the last word, that he’s trying to make it obvious how aware _he_ is of all this. It’s easy to cloak it under advice for Anthony, but he’s making it a warning, too. _I’m not falling for this. I will figure you out._

If Anthony takes it that way, he gives no outward sign. “Believe me, I know. I was in the army, remember? I could write you a book on the diet of bullshit and propaganda I was fed. Hell, you still see it. The posters are still everywhere.”

“Every powerful, ferocious beast has some kind of underbelly, huh?” Deacon says. 

Anthony stays quiet for a moment. They pick their way off the road and into the scrubby brown grass next to it. The hills roll out from there to the backs of the crumbling brick buildings that make up the edge of town. They look deceptively still in the late morning sun.

“So what’s the Railroad’s deal?” Anthony says at length, just as Deacon’s reaching to pull Deliverer from the waistband of his jeans. 

Deacon tilts his head, considering. Not much reason to oversell it, at this point, and not much ground to gain in underselling it. They’ve already shown their hand. So he doesn’t lie when he says, “We’re not about saving the world. It’s too big a job for too few. But we’re trying to make it a better place, one synth at a time. And...care about the little guys. Maybe lend a hand. Not as much as some would like, not like you guys are doing, but hey, it’s something.” 

Anthony nods again, seeming to accept this. They fall quiet as if in agreement after that, slowing their steps as they begin circling around the edge of the town. Deacon can hear distant, growling sort of noises every now and again, the kind that could be rubble shifting, or could be ferals ambling into the street. When the parking garage and the Super Duper Mart next to it come into view, Deacon motions for Anthony to crouch. They press close to the concrete, ducking below the gap, and carefully move along the garage wall. Deacon risks a peek over the edge when they hit the corner. Sure enough, he sees a couple ferals crouched near some wooden pallets in one corner, twitching just enough to guarantee they’re alive, and listening. Deacon waves Anthony forward, pressing a finger to his lips. 

Anthony pauses when they round the side and come up on some kind of outdoor picnic area. He presses his back to the wall, combat rifle in hand, and then ventures a look around the corner. Deacon waits beside him, finger poised on Deliverer’s trigger. 

“Clear,” Anthony whispers. He motions for Deacon to take the lead, and Deacon crosses to the wall of the grocery store, carefully winding his way around the broken vending machines toward a mailbox that sits just outside the main entrance. He hears the quiet shift of leather as Anthony follows behind him. Wordlessly, Deacon points to the railsign drawn in chalk on the side, and then slowly pulls the mailslot open. It creaks a little, and he pauses, tensing, waiting. His eyes dart from side to side, but when no ferals come sprinting around the side of the building at them, he breathes out and pulls it the rest of the way open. A holotape sits inside. Deacon grabs it, passing it to Anthony, and then motions for him to turn back. 

“Fuck, I hate that town,” Deacon finally says when they’re well clear of the last buildings and back up the hill beyond. “Not that any town around here is exactly inviting but that place screams Death Trap everywhere you turn.”

“Definitely not how I remember it,” Anthony says. “Used to shop at that Super Duper Mart, sometimes. They had the shittiest avocados.” 

“I have no idea what that is and you’re really not selling me on trying it,” Deacon says. 

“They were this--well, this green fruit, but not sweet, more sort of--mushy, but good mushy?” Anthony shakes his head. “Yeah, you’re right, I’m not selling it at all.” He turns his wrist, popping open the tape deck on the Pip Boy and sliding the holotape in. He holds it up as they step back onto the road.

A tinny sound crackles through the speaker as the tape begins. “Mr. Tims here. Randolph Safehouse was not hit. But do not make direct contact. Repeat: Do not make direct contact. We got three packages, very scared packages, here. Requesting assistance. Our runner reports we got Gen-1s camped nearby. Assuming we're under surveillance. Please have a heavy clear the area. Coordinates enclosed. After, please pass our status back to Big D. Mr. Tims out.”

Anthony taps the screen a few times. “Coordinates. Looks like… University Point? Does that sound right?” 

Deacon tries not to stiffen too visibly, and reminds himself to nod. Shit. Big steaming piles of brahmin shit. 

_All right, breathe._ There’s about sixteen different faces, a rather infamous battle, and a gaping sinkhole of years between Deacon and his hometown. So this shouldn’t be a big deal. A whole other settlement had sprung up and thrived and gotten invaded and wiped out on that same ground in the time between Deacon’s childhood and now. It was probably unrecognizable. Just another town. 

No one, not one single person still alive, even knew it was his hometown. Not even Watts, or PInky, or the few other scattered names that had made up the Railroad when he joined knew he wasn’t from the farm they found him on. 

“University Point, that’s…” Anthony taps the side of the Pip Boy as he scans the horizon blindly in thought. “That was Massachusetts Bay University, I think? So if I remember right, that’s not that far from the Castle.”

“West of it, I think,” Deacon says, hoping the edge is staying out of his voice. “It’s, uh, been a known Institute focal point for awhile now. Don’t know the whole story there.”

Which wasn’t…_entirely_ untrue. Surprising no one, he’d been a nosy kid. A nosy kid that devoured the library’s selection of spy novels like sweet rolls and made a hobby of sneaking into places he wasn’t supposed to go. He’d peeked at the old terminals scattered throughout the University buildings, and pieced together enough to know the pre-war military had something going on around campus, somewhere. He’d never been brave enough to go looking, despite his curiosity. He had enough trouble tiptoeing around the mirelurks in the library. But he’s hardly surprised to find it piquing the Institute’s interest now, whatever it is.

“Gen-1s shouldn’t be much of a problem,” Anthony says, running a finger over the Pip Boy screen. Looking for the map, Deacon assumes. “I need to check on things at the Castle, anyway.” He frowns. “Think they’ll manage a couple more days until we can get out there?”

“They’ll have to,” Deacon says. “Time is of the essence moving any ‘packages,’ even under the best of circumstances, but this is a little unprecedented. We don’t get a lot of--or hell, _any_\--safehouses that go dark and then rise from the dead. If they’re on the level, they’ve been holding their ‘packages’ a lot longer than we ever like to risk. The longer they stay in one place, the bigger the target they’re painting on the safehouse. On the other hand, if they’re playing us, then it doesn’t matter when we get there to spring the trap.”

Anthony’s mouth twists in thought. “Right. In that case, I’d rather have some backup.”

Deacon grits his teeth, ducking under a low-hanging branch as they pass another patch of trees. “Might be easier to sneak in if we keep the headcount to a minimum--”

“I’ll only bring the best, but I’m not walking into a trap with just you and me. We fail, the Railroad loses two agents at best. At worst, they’re going to want...information. I’d risk not just you all, but the Minutemen as well. Even the Brotherhood. And much as I’m not their biggest fan, ‘enemy of my enemy’ and all that. There’s too much at stake here.” He looks over at Deacon. “So, small group. Quick work. Painless as possible.”

Deacon’s too pleasantly surprised at the forethought for the Railroad’s wellbeing to argue further. “What could possibly go wrong?” 

Anthony rolls his eyes. They continue up the road in relative silence, Deacon taking slow, deep breaths that he tries not to make too obvious. Right. What could possibly go wrong?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1) Given some of his random in-game comments, I’ve decided MacCready eats like a college frat boy. This is my unshakeable headcanon, hence all the mac and cheese on his shelves.
> 
> 2) Unshakeable headcanon #2: Anne Hargraves and Deacon would get along like a house on fire. So I made it real. I mean not that he’d actually trust her but I think he’d find her extremely entertaining and an excellent source.
> 
> 3) Deacon Is An Unreliable Narrator and does not realize that if MacCready actually had access to paint, his house would look like the inside of a carnival tent. I mean in-game the guy laments not having a midnight blue trailer with a leopard print interior, or a magenta Corvega car with a lime green interior. See note 1 re: taste of a frat boy.
> 
> 4) I know I skipped Deacon’s first approval talk but honestly, after listening through, it just doesn’t make a ton of sense if your soul survivor is already pretty established, outside of him proving his point about liars. He talks about you having no connections/family and if you have a romance and you’re the General or a Knight it’s kind of ?????? The second talk just fit better with the narrative.
> 
> 5) I genuinely could not remember or find a map of dead drop mailbox locations so I made one up, and if it actually is one then yay me but if not...shhhh.
> 
> Chapter 4 is finished and will be posted once I have a draft for Chapter 5.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An emergency at the Castle leaves Deacon and MacCready on their own on a mission to put down some raiders. It's all fun and games until the radiation storm hits.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My thanks once again to **serenityfails** for their beta work and cheerleading. This is one of the chapters I've been anxiously waiting to write since I started planning this series. Thanks once more for all your kind comments!
> 
> Forewarning for chapter content: there is some explicit description of gore and violence, and there is a PTSD-induced panic attack. The worst of the gore description is between "As he draws closer" and "Looks clear." You can skip it without missing anything important to plot. Take care.

Deacon wakes to the sound of boots stomping across wood planks. The scent of pine hits his nose first, sharp and strong, and he realizes a moment later that it's because his nose is quite literally shoved into the floor, where it's slipped off the roll of clothing he was using as a pillow. 

Pounding on the door across the room makes him jump. He's scrambling out of his blankets on blind, stumbling instinct almost before he realizes he’s moving.

"General! General, sir!" someone shouts through the door. It cuts through the sleepy fog of his thoughts like a knife, because it isn't "Courser!" or "Dead drop!" or something else he's expecting to hear. Wake up, wake up, _think_. 

He glances around the room even as his feet still carry him to the door. It’s a wide open room doing triple duty. Couches and chairs sit to one side, where Deacon sees Anthony sitting up blearily, and Garvey behind him. Deacon's been sleeping on the other side of the room, between the kitchen and a dining table. There's an iron set of stairs across from the door, and beneath them, MacCready stirs, pulling the blankets down from over his head. Okay, right, farmhouse. Farmhouse in--shit, what the hell was the name of--Oberland. On the train tracks, at the edge of the woods. 

They'd come south from Sanctuary, and this was a pit stop on the way to University Point. Oberland had called over the ham radio the day before they left: trouble with raiders coming from some old hardware store, urgent, but not an emergency. So into the itinerary they went. Not like they weren't heading that direction anyway. Still, Deacon had found himself wondering if Anthony ever does anything but bounce from settlement to settlement like an especially helpful pinball, crushing invaders and filling in gaps and lighting up faces like jackpot signs. He rarely seems to send any of his troops in his stead. If he really is biding his time and building his empire, he’s building it by hand. His own hand. 

Deacon makes it to the door, though he nearly trips over one of the dining chairs on the way as he tries to scrub the sleep from his eyes. He glances through the peephole, kicking himself for not grabbing his pistol. Or his shades. A woman, tan skin, dark eyes, dressed the way the Minutemen usually dress, and all right, maybe the shouting about the General should've given that away. The hat definitely did, if nothing else. She marches inside almost before he has the door all the way open, and he belatedly swings a hand through the air in a _well come on in then random stranger who definitely couldn’t have stolen that hat and come to kill us_ gesture. She looks around the room frantically until she spots Anthony slowly getting to his knees behind one of the couches. 

“General, sir,” she says, saluting sharply, “Apologies, but it’s the Castle. It’s under attack.”

The air leaves the room. Anthony’s immediately on his feet, and Garvey fumbles for a handhold on the coffee table to do the same. Anthony scrubs the back of his hand over his eyes, shaking himself awake. “Attack? What happened?”

“Supermutants, sir. They attacked from the south wall, The concrete hadn’t dried all the way, and--”

“Shit,” Anthony’s already turning away, bending to grab the pieces of armor he’d left at the foot of his bedroll. Preston’s already pulling on his boots. Deacon closes the front door and looks around first for his sunglasses.

“It’ll be a two hour trek if we’re lucky and don’t run into anything on the way,” Preston says. “We need to leave now.”

“But the raiders--” Anthony stops mid-strap, looking from Preston to MacCready, who’s managed to push up on his knees under the staircase, trying to blink himself awake. 

“No choice,” Preston says. “We’re going to have to split up. We can meet at the Castle and head down when it’s done.” 

Anthony glances at Deacon, who’s shoved his glasses on and is halfway to folding up his bedroll. “I’m sorry to ask this, but--”

“It’s all right, Bullseye. Helping the little guy, remember?” Deacon says with a shrug. MacCready is apparently awake enough to snort, and Deacon ignores him. “I can handle a few raiders.”

“Not alone,” Anthony says. “RJ, give him a hand. We’ll meet at the Castle when you’re done.”

Deacon and MacCready start talking at the same time.

“That’s really not--”

“He just said he could--”

“No time,” Anthony cuts in firmly. The General voice, Deacon guesses. He’s not heard it quite like this yet. “Take it out on the raiders and not each other, please.” Deacon half-expects _And that’s an order_ to follow, or _Be home by sundown, children_, but Anthony says no more. He finishes stuffing his things into his pack just as Garvey slips on his coat. He looks to the woman waiting uneasily by the door, shifting from one foot to the other. “Lead the way, we’re right behind you.”

And then the door slams decisively shut, leaving a ringing silence in its wake. Deacon and MacCready stare at one another for a moment. Then MacCready scowls and turns back to his bedroll, mumbling under his breath, “Great, just freaking great.”

“Aw come on, Bobby, you get to play hero. That’s gotta be a nice change of pace,” Deacon says, resuming his folding. 

“The heck did you just call me?” MacCready stops midway through leaning to grab his hat and straightens, glaring.

“I’ll even let you take all the credit when we get back. That’s just the kind of guy I am,” Deacon says.

“I do not need your fu--freaking charity,” MacCready growls, turning back to snatch his hat off the floor. 

Deacon shrugs, clipping the bedroll to his pack. “Fine, I’ll take all the credit then.” 

“That’s just the kind of guy you are,” MacCready grumbles. He pulls a paper map out of his pack and spreads it over the dining room table. “Let’s just fu--just get this over with.” 

\----

“Agh! Son of a--brahmin!” 

Deacon looks over. They’ve been traveling down separate sides of the train tracks, wordlessly keeping their eyes on their own sides of the forest. It’s cloudy, so at least they’re not contending with deep shadows, but early morning always brings out the _fun_ animals. 

MacCready’s shaking out his foot now, glaring down at some patch of dirt like it attacked him on purpose, possibly by daring to have a divot easy enough to trip over. The nerve. And still, it doesn’t earn an actual curse.

Deacon tilts his head a little. “All right, I’ll bite. What’s with the swear embargo?”

“What?” MacCready looks up at him, distracted. 

“The swearing,” Deacon repeats. “Or lack thereof. What’s the deal?”

“What do you care?” MacCready says. He busies himself adjusting the strap of his rifle and stares ahead of them. 

“Because I’m nosy and it’s weird,” Deacon says flatly. “It’s fine to take off a few heads for a few caps but you draw the line at saying ‘fuck’?” 

“Are you ever going to stop harping on the mercenary crap? Why is it such a big deal to you?” MacCready snaps without meeting his eyes. Deacon’s been manipulating conversations long enough to know a calculated subject change when he hears one, but all right. They haven’t argued in at least half an hour. They’re overdue. 

“I think your answer is right there. You don’t see a problem with it,” Deacon says. 

“And again, you’ve killed people. Right in front of me. Right alongside me. Where’s your moral high ground, here?” MacCready says, narrowing his eyes but still keeping them trained ahead of him.

“Self-defense is a completely different--”

“Oh right, okay, so it’s fine to kill people for free,” MacCready interrupts, shaking his head.

“When they’re putting you in a situation where it’s your life or theirs, that’s one thing, yeah,” Deacon says, with what he considers a great deal of patience. “There’s a difference between murder and survival.”

A derailed train spills over the tracks ahead of them, cars tipping on their sides or slammed into the dirt. In lieu of answering Deacon, MacCready kneels, pulling his rifle around and lifting the scope. He’s still for a long moment, long enough that Deacon slowly crouches as well. Then MacCready lets out a breath and fires. Deacon’s eyes dart to the train in time to see a feral ghoul’s arms flail beneath one of the cars, then slump back out of sight. MacCready looks back over his shoulder at Deacon, raises his eyebrows, and says, “Sometimes it’s murder _for_ survival.”

He stands without waiting for a reply, circling around the train and further back, putting a few trees between him and the tracks. Deacon shakes his head but follows the same line, eyeing the cars as he passes. _That’s not what I meant and you know it._

“Not everyone gets the luxury of nice parents and a roof over their heads,” MacCready says once the train is well behind them. “Some of us get tossed into the wasteland and it’s die or pick up a gun.”

“Bold of you to assume I had a happy childhood,” Deacon says. He climbs over a downed log splitting the rails. MacCready weaves around it.

“Let me guess. You were born in a dumpster and raised in a barrel. You’re a robot--’scuse me, a _synth_. No, wait, you were--hmm--raised by radscorpions,” MacCready laughs as he trails ahead. “It would explain the personality.”

“Please, you think I got all this natural charm from radscorpions? It was obviously yao guai,” says Deacon. “Bet our cave was nicer than yours. And even Mama Yao Guai knew to teach me that survival isn’t a get-out-of-jail-free card for murder-for-hire.”

“A what?” 

“Oh my god, the cave didn’t have board games, either?” Deacon presses the hand not holding Deliverer to his chest in mock surprise. “Savages.”

“Not exactly like it was safe for a bunch of kids to be wandering the wasteland looking for games,” MacCready says. Deacon just barely hears the muttered, “We _had_ Blast Radius.”

Deacon’s the one that stops walking this time, turning to gape at MacCready across the tracks. “Wait, wait, wait. Wait just one damn minute. That rumor was actually _true_? You really did grow up in a cave full of kids? No adults?”

MacCready shifts his weight to one foot, narrowing his eyes again. He lifts his chin. “What of it?”

Deacon laughs. A full-on, cheeks-aching belly laugh, bent over and nearly stumbling into the scrubby brush next to him. MacCready looks away, annoyed. “Ho-_lee_ shit. No wonder your moral compass is always pointing south. You got it from a bunch of teenagers.”

“Yeah, too bad I wasn’t adopted by the noble yao guai,” MacCready snaps. “Fine, Saint Deacon, have it your way. No more killing. I’ll just let the damn ghouls eat you next time.” He turns on his heel, muttering to himself as he stalks away. 

Deacon just shakes his head again. Honestly, what was the point in even trying to reason with him?

The bridge coming into view ahead of them is a bright, flaking red against the grey clouds hanging overhead. The guard rail stands at hip height, offering little to shield them from view as the trees recede around them. MacCready crouches as he reaches it, ducking his head. Deacon follows, eyeing the rotted wood planks with unease. That’s a hell of a lot of steel sitting on old, _old_ boards. He places one foot gingerly down, testing the weight.

He peeks over the side of the rail as he goes, more to stop himself from staring at the planks and waiting for them to split. The highway is littered with the rusted husks of old cars and a few trucks, scattered and overturned at odd angles, as though thrown there like discarded toys. He sees no sign of life, at least, nothing moving in the rubble. The rubble far, far below. He snaps his eyes up and over to the other side of the bridge, where the highway winds up into the air. It scales high enough to crest the trees before cutting off abruptly. He wonders, idly, what it felt like to drive one of those cars up into the sky like that, wonders how it could ever feel routine. Or not, you know, _terrifyingly high up_.

MacCready veers left when he steps off the bridge. Deacon follows not a minute after, determinedly ignoring the odd creak of the wood as he steps onto the dirt beyond. There’s a stone path off to the left lined with park benches, and MacCready, still crouched low, picks his way across it. In the distance, a rickety-looking wooden structure straddles the wall separating the path from the road below. MacCready seems to see it at the same time Deacon does and stops, pulling his rifle around his back and lifting it as he had before. He looks through the scope, and Deacon waits. His own sniper rifle is in his pack, but it would take a lot of noticeable movement to get it out, if someone’s watching them. Traveling with Anthony and MacCready meant less of a need for a third sniper, much as Deacon felt more at home shooting from a distance. He had no problem admitting they were far better marksmen, mostly because it meant less work for him. He’s trying to get himself used to Deliverer anyway. 

MacCready’s shoulders stiffen after a few seconds. Deacon braces himself, tightening his grip on his pistol. But the shot he expects to hear doesn’t come. MacCready simply lowers the rifle and turns his head slightly. Deacon takes the hint and moves to join him.

“Ferals,” MacCready whispers once Deacon’s at his side. “The ones I can see are dead. Or shot to hell, at least. There’s blood everywhere.”

Deacon winces. “But there might be more.”

“Right.”

Deacon nods. “I’ve got a silencer, I’ll go first.”

MacCready sweeps a hand out. “Be my guest. I’m on the straight and narrow, remember. This is all you.”

Deacon flicks his middle finger up into the air without turning. He’s done debating with obstinate, amoral brick walls. Or something like that. He crawls forward, anyway, keeping the park benches between him and what looks like the entrance to this...settlement? House? Thing? 

As he draws closer he sees them: two ferals, sprawled across a downed panel of the guard wall surrounding the right side. Easy to imagine they’d burst through it, taken the settlers by surprise. Blood splatters the wood, blood and what he hopes to god is not actually intestines, but really, really looks like intestines. He feels his stomach turn sour.

_Don’t look down_.

He darts his eyes up to look at the house, or whatever the wood structure is, watching for movement. It’s difficult; the clouds blowing in are growing darker, deepening the shadows under the roof. Great, why not just add some rain to the--yeah, definitely intestines, now that he’s close enough for the smell to hit. He barely stifles a groan, reaching up with his free hand to cover his nose. He hears a hiss behind him, doesn’t catch the words. He glances back to see MacCready turning his face into his sleeve. They press themselves against a part of the wall still intact, and listen. And try not to vomit. 

When several seconds pass in silence, Deacon cranes his neck to peer around the wall. Another feral is sprawled at a frankly disgusting angle over another smashed-in wood panel. No settler corpses immediately in view, and nothing moving. He steps carefully around the wall, trying not to inhale or step on something--ugh, _squishy_. God, these poor bastards, whoever they were. Nothing even left of them. 

A survey of the wood structure leaves him no more conclusive about whether it was supposed to be a house or something else. There’s nothing left in it but junk, now. A haphazard ladder of stairs leads down onto the highway, and another obscene scattering of ferals and feral… _parts_. Deacon wrinkles his nose, pockets a Nuka-Cola Quantum that had tumbled off a side table in the corner, and circles back down to the guard wall.

“Looks clear,” Deacon whispers. He risks rising to his feet, glancing around them again. “Aside from a hell of a lot of dead ferals.” 

“Probably shouldn’t wait around to find out what killed them,” MacCready says, nodding toward the way forward. 

“Really? I was thinking this would be a perfect lunch spot--”

Before Deacon can finish, thunder rolls across the sky. They both look up in time to see lightning, sickly green, fork through the clouds with an ominous flash.

“Oh _fuck_,” MacCready spits. 

“Knew you had it in you,” Deacon says, and MacCready doesn’t even bother to glare at him. 

They both break into a run, barreling down the stone path and around the side of the building that marks the Mass Pike Tunnel, looking around frantically for a safe structure to duck into. MacCready, pulling ahead, skids to a stop fast enough that Deacon crashes into his back with a grunt. Before he can ask, MacCready’s grabbing his arm and yanking him back the way they came. Deacon looks back over his shoulder in time to see two raiders rushing around the side of a parked truck. Well, balls. 

“The tunnel,” he calls to MacCready, who lets go of his sleeve. “There’s stairs down.” 

“There might be--”

“There’s no _time_,” Deacon says. “At least far enough in we’ll be out of the storm.”

They fly down the stairs to the highway, leaping over piles of trash and feral corpses. The first tunnel is nearly full with rubble, but the second is open enough for them to slip inside—not completely out of the reach of the storm, but far enough in to see a metal access door unblocked in the wall. MacCready and Deacon share a look, and then another clap of thunder decides for them. 

\-----

The door leads them to a dark, dirty corridor lined with concrete and tiles. It reminds Deacon vaguely of some of the subway tunnels he’s been through. A single square of dim light paints the floor through an opening in the wall to the right. Deacon crouches and steps carefully toward it. MacCready waits by the door. When Deacon ventures a look around the corner, he’s greeted by something so absurd he barely smothers a laugh in time. 

Teddy bears, four of them, all different sizes, sitting among a few other scattered toys on what looks to be a bus bench. Scrawled above them in chalk, right into the side of the bus, is the phrase, “All are welcome.”

Cautiously, Deacon climbs onto the first step up. The front has been partitioned off with a ratty curtain, and the light seems to be coming from behind it. The back of the bus is—well, nonexistent. The steel twists at sharp angles, as though something had ripped the bus in two, and carried the lower half off god knows where. (Oh please, _please_ do not let there be a deathclaw in here.) The bus simply opens onto the water-logged highway tunnel. There’s light further down, too far for Deacon to make out, and it reflects strangely on the standing water pooled below.

He takes another cautious step up. The curtain isn’t large, but it’s pulled just far enough that it could easily hide someone preparing an ambush. He keeps Deliverer lifted and reaches out slowly, curling his fingers around it and then ripping it back.

He’s ambushed not by a waiting raider, but by more teddy bears. He blinks for a moment, trying to figure out if he’s actually looking at one teddy bear in the process of threatening another with a bone cutter, the both of them propped up on some kind of gurney, backlit dramatically by a surgical lamp.

Great, they’ve stumbled on an insane person’s art gallery.

“What the _fuck_?” he hisses, the breath he’d been holding escaping in a quiet laugh. He straightens up onto his feet.

MacCready appears at the bus door, rifle raised, but he lowers it slightly to stare at the bears on the bench. He looks from the bench to Deacon in utter bewilderment. 

“It gets better,” Deacon says. He gestures behind him, and his hand accidentally knocks the gurney. The bone cutter clatters loudly to the floor.

Behind them, the water moves.

Both of them freeze.

A noise follows that might have been a grunt if it wasn’t watery and choked. A feral ghoul slowly twitches up out of the puddle, the skin on its face sagging nearly to its shoulders. It stands unsteadily in the water, and then turns toward them, letting out a wild growl.

A rifle shot rings out before Deacon can even move. The feral’s head bursts like an overripe fruit, blood splattering the bus floor and the water. The noise echoes harshly down the tunnel.

“Shit, _no_,” Deacon hisses, far too late. He runs forward to the edge, past where MacCready stands, looking around the tunnel. “The noise—“

He barely catches sight of an opening in the wall just ahead of where the bus sits before it’s filled with ferals, stumbling out from a room beyond. Another stands up further down the tunnel, and another in the next tunnel over, visible through an open space on the wall. For a moment, they only jerk forward in odd, slow steps, and then the moment snaps, and all at once, they barrel toward the bus.

Son of an absolutely godforsaken _bitch_.

Deacon shoots the closest in the chest, a clumsy shot that misses the heart but still knocks the feral back, bony arms pinwheeling. It collides with another behind it, but two others jerk around it. Deacon fires at another, clipping it in the shoulder, stopping its run but leaving it alive. He aims for the knee on the next and the brittle bones crumble, dragging it down into the water.

Then there’s a bullet between its eyes, almost before Deacon registers the sound of another gun, and it drops below the surface, unmoving. Three more shots, one right after the other, first the one Deacon hit in the shoulder, then the next, and the next, headshot after headshot. Blood sprays over the concrete, over the water. 

Deacon turns his gun on the ones further down the tunnel, and manages to take down the closer one, hitting the heart this time. The second drops at the same time, another shot splitting the air over Deacon’s shoulder. 

It’s over in seconds, leaving a sudden, terrible silence.

Neither of them move. Deacon, wide-eyed beneath his sunglasses, keeps Deliverer trained on the doorway, his heart pounding in his chest. MacCready is still and silent behind him, just small, short catches of breath Deacon wouldn’t hear if he wasn’t so close. A minute passes. Then another. Deacon finds himself counting the seconds. Nothing moves. Nothing breaks the dark water at their feet. Nothing passes in front of the light further down the tunnel. 

He knows this happens. He’s seen it before. But so many of them, so fast, so close--

For a brief, absurd moment, Deacon thinks of the library. He’s nine years old, watching a projector screen as the holotape inside rewinds. He giggles at the strange motions the actors make as they move in reverse, jerking and twitching and speed-walking backwards, arms swinging the wrong directions. 

Ferals were humans, once. Rewound by radiation, nothing but nerves pulling at threadbare muscles, stretched over bone. Bitten off fragments of whole lives. Dead but not. Nothing left but hunger. And anger.

It takes so little to become a monster.

Behind Deacon, MacCready’s sharp breathing is growing a little louder, shuddering with each inhale. Deacon waits another long, still minute before slowly turning his head to look back. 

Even in the strange lamplight around them, MacCready looks pale. His eyes are wild and wide, fixed on that same opening beyond the water. He’s holding up a pistol Deacon doesn’t recognize, rifle slung back over his shoulder, duster open and scarf hanging free. The barrel of the gun trembles, just a little.

Slowly, Deacon lowers Deliverer, and takes a few careful, quiet steps to the left to lean back against the side of the bus. He lets out a long breath, and looks up at MacCready.

MacCready still doesn’t move. He holds the pistol in the air in front of him, and his hands begin to shake. Deacon’s brow furrows. He opens his mouth to whisper his name, but MacCready’s chest begins to heave, his breathing growing even louder, until it’s ripping in and out of him like it’s sawing through his lungs. He stumbles to the side a step. He never stops staring ahead.

Deacon straightens immediately. He’s going to bring more of them, panting like that, too loud in the eerie, musty stillness, echoing off the concrete. He looks nervously toward the water even as he takes a careful step toward MacCready. 

“Hey,” he whispers. “Hey, come on, breathe. We got them.”

MacCready’s eyes are glassy and panicked when they fix on Deacon, and Deacon wonders if he’s even seeing him. He steps a little closer, hands raised a little. “Breathe, MacCready. In and out.”

MacCready stumbles back a little, and Deacon reaches for him on instinct, yanking him upright. It’s a narrow escape from crashing into the gurney behind them. Deacon’s gripping his wrist, and he feels MacCready’s pulse racing under his fingers.

Shit. 

MacCready stares at him, panting and white. Then his eyes dart from the shredded steel of the back of the bus to the gurney and back. 

“I—oh, god—I—“ 

“Breathe, man, come on,” Deacon whispers. His eyes land on the bus door, and the little hallway beyond. He tugs at MacCready’s wrist, pulling him toward it. MacCready resists for a moment, confused, alarmed.

“Back here, come on,” Deacon says, jerking his head toward the hallway. “Choke point.”

That earns him a flicker of recognition. MacCready, still panting but cutting through it with a forced, deep inhale, lets Deacon pull him down the two steps and back into the hallway. Then he pulls free, pressing his back to the wall, rifle clattering against the concrete. He reaches back with a trembling hand to pull it in front of him. Slowly, he slides to the floor, cradling the rifle in his lap along with the pistol that’s still in his other hand. 

Deacon hovers a foot or two away. His hands are stuck in the air, half-raised, Deliverer limp in one and the other splayed and empty. He doesn’t know what to do.

Deacon always has a plan. And a backup plan. Backup plans A - G, really, and backup plans for those backup plans. This hadn’t even registered as something to plan for. He’s not going to ask, because it might set the panic back off. And he knows that kind of panic. The way it leaves you cold, disoriented, launching you out of your body and then sending you careening back into it upside down. How it lingers after, how easily it snatches you back when you’re too weak and lost to fight it down. MacCready can’t fight back like this, if he brings more ferals down on top of them. Deacon eyes the bus door and tightens his grip on Deliverer. 

MacCready’s shoulders rise and fall violently as he takes deep gulps of air, holds them, and then lets them out, over and over. Deacon just watches, lost, eyes darting between MacCready and the bus. When nothing comes, Deacon lowers his hands and steps quietly to settle himself on the wall across from the bus door, a couple feet away from MacCready. He leans his head back, the concrete cold and clammy against his neck, and tries to think of something.

“You know, this reminds me of the time I got stuck in a subway full of raiders,” Deacon blurts out, quiet enough not to echo but loud enough to be heard. He keeps his eyes on the bizarre teddy bear display across from him, but out of the corner of his eye, he sees MacCready look over at him.

He doesn’t know where he’s going with this. Had no idea he was even going to say it. It’s a lie. It probably won’t be one of his better ones. But if--shit, if he can just distract MacCready enough to get him breathing normally, then maybe he won’t get them both killed. 

“I was doing surveillance on a courser. They’re, uh...” he glances over, “terrifying Institute killing machines, about fifty times more scary than the Gen-1s...”

_Come on, Deacon, this is not helping._ The look MacCready gives him says as much. But he surprises Deacon with a ragged mumble of, “And they sent you, alone?” Another breath, in and out. “First mistake.”

It’s too toneless to have the usual venom, but it’s a step toward normal. Deacon looks away. “Honestly, you’re not wrong. But I wasn’t supposed to be fighting him, or even seen by him. Just figure out why he was there.”

He shifts against the floor tiles, trying to ease the ache blossoming in his tail bone. “So while I’m watching him, up from behind me comes a fucking _army_ of supermutants. Like just a stampede of them.”

He can practically feel the eyebrow raise. But he also can’t hear panting anymore. So he presses on. “I’m hidden in this pile of rubble, and they go bounding past me and straight for the courser and the Gen-1s he’s got with him. Lucky break, right? So I pop a stealth boy and go flying in the other direction. First thing I see is a subway entrance and I’m not really thinking strategy, just, y’know, put a door between me and—_that_. So I get in, see the ticket counter first thing, and just duck straight behind it to catch my breath.”

“Why are you telling me this?”

Deacon looks over. MacCready’s posture has straightened out, and the pistol has disappeared back wherever it was hidden before. There’s just the rifle, held solidly in one hand. MacCready’s staring at Deacon as though Deacon’s some kind of broken radio he needs to rewire, so the sounds coming out make sense.

Deacon shrugs. All right, he’s lucid and not panicking, mission accomplished. “I don’t know. Just reminded me.”

The silence stretches long enough to be awkward, broken occasionally by the slurp of water, probably lapping against one of the bodies. They both tense each time, but still nothing comes. Deacon’s just about to stand and venture back toward the access door, check on the sky, when MacCready speaks.

“So where do the raiders fit in?”

Deacon looks at him in surprise before he can stop himself, or try to hide it under a smirk instead. MacCready just watches him, unreadable.

“Well,” he says, clearing his throat, “like two minutes after I get behind the counter, I hear footsteps coming up the stairs from the subway tunnel. So I back up flat as I can against the wall, try not to breathe. Two guys come up, one’s got a pool cue covered in spikes and the other one’s got a machete. Because raiders are all about subtlety, right?”

The corner of MacCready’s mouth twitches up. Deacon feels a little proud of himself, which is an extremely weird thing to feel. He’s talking down one of his least favorite people with some bullshit story he didn’t even need to make up, but hell, it’s working, and they’re going to make it out of this. 

“Anyway they’re bumbling in all ‘Who’s there? Know I heard the door. Who the fuck is there?’” He drops his voice to make it gravelly, twisting his mouth into an exaggerated scowl. “And I’m just pressed against that wall, invisible, trying not to move a single muscle. They check all around the room, and then finally get to the counter. Machete comes around the side, checking all the tiny ass shelves. Like what’s going to hide in there, a haunted garden gnome? But he checks, and then comes to a stop right the fuck in front of me. I mean I could reach out and touch the damn machete. And he’s waiting, and I’m waiting, and then he lets out the most vicious fart. Just loud as all fuck, and the _smell_.”

MacCready snorts, then reaches up quickly to smother the noise, eyes darting to the bus in alarm. But it’s not quite enough to stop his shoulders shaking a little. Deacon feigns offense, frowning. “Listen, I almost died right there, right then. I mean I don’t know what the hell the guy was eating but it had to be rotten because it was _nuclear_.”

MacCready shakes his head, squeezing his eyes shut, shoulders still shaking. Deacon looks away to hide his own amusement and adds, “Yeah, all right, laugh at my pain, you dick.”

MacCready keeps shaking his head, and slowly moves his hand away. “You brave soldier.”

“I’m telling you, that was a near death experience and I’m lucky to be alive,” Deacon says. “Probably so is that guy, if whatever he was eating hasn’t killed him by now. Sure as shit wasn’t going to wait around and hope. Soon as they gave up and went back downstairs I booked it for the door.”

“Could’ve been worse,” MacCready says. “Could’ve been a supermutant fart.”

“Never took you for such an optimist,” Deacon says. He leans his head back again. “You really did grow up surrounded by teenagers, didn’t you.”

Okay yeah it is...really really weird, joking around like this. Now that the danger is passing, he needs some distance. He pushes himself to his feet and walks quietly toward the access door, slowly pushing it open and listening. No thunder. He pushes his luck and sticks his head out. The sky is grey again, and still heavy with clouds, but no lightning splits through them. He gives it another minute, watching. Then he lets his shoulders relax.

“Think we’re in the clear,” he says when he gets back down to where MacCready sits. “If you’re, uh, good?”

MacCready looks at him for a moment, and there’s a flicker of something that looks like embarrassment. Like if it were anyone else looking down at him, he might apologize. He doesn’t. He just nods, pushing awkwardly to his feet. “Yeah, let’s get out of here.”

Deacon’s tempted to ask again. They’ve run into ferals before, it can’t just be that. _So the asshole has a weak point_ some vicious part of him thinks, but his heart isn’t in it. He knows that wide-eyed, white-faced fear, knows the dry-mouth ache in his throat after, the bitter taste on his tongue, the burn in his lungs. And maybe he _would_ wish that feeling on his worst enemy, but maybe MacCready’s not his worst enemy. Not today. So he doesn’t ask, and MacCready doesn’t offer.

“Shall we take it out on the raiders?” Deacon says instead, pushing the door open. He hears a very small, very quiet chuckle behind him. 

\-----

A day later, he’s standing in University Point, and it isn't like he remembers. That doesn't make it easier.

While Anthony and Garvey plant themselves in some kind of storage room in the old lecture hall, picking the shelves clean of tools and fuses and batteries, he and MacCready roam the next floor up, searching for stragglers. More of the floor has caved in than Deacon remembers, and muddy water has swallowed most of the ground floor. He weaves in and out of offices and classrooms while MacCready checks the other side, ducking under the sagging roof. 

Deacon tries to keep his thoughts here, listening for the mechanical footsteps of the Institute synths, but god, he knew this place so well, once. He'd hidden under that desk after a fight with his father, for hours. He'd doodled on that chalkboard, filled the whole thing with nonsense drawings of monsters and superheroes. He'd convinced some of his friends to play hide and seek, and won by wedging himself into that pile of student desks in the corner.

He wonders where they are, now, those kids. Well. He knows where some of them are. He turns from that bitter thought and presses his back to the wall, peeking into what was probably a classroom when the walls still stood. Nothing.

Over and over again, settlers come to the bones of this place, trying to breathe life back into it. Over and over again, something else comes, and strips it back down to bones again. When Garvey had looked around after they'd cleared the courtyard outside, and remarked that they might settle it again, Deacon had thought: _Maybe it should just stay dead._ But what he said instead was something about too much Institute attention on it, and Garvey dropped the subject.

Deacon's not even sure his settlement was the first. This one had been the second, or maybe third, since then. Wooden shacks fill that courtyard now, leaning precariously on the muddy ground, and many of the buildings that had been homes when Deacon was a child were repurposed into shops. The building he had lived in, its white-blue paint chipping and the foundation clearly sagging, had been boarded up entirely, and somehow that's...fitting. Had they left anything behind? If he had pried open the boards and looked in windows that long ago lost their glass, would he have seen his old bed? Toys? Books? Some fragment of something he recognized? 

He honestly can't decide if that would have been better or worse.

He keeps his thoughts to himself, shoots down a Gen-1 that wanders into sight from a doorway, and doesn't feel any better. Littering his hometown with dead synths, even enemies, even trying to save other synths, is unsettling. He feels like he's sticking his hand in the still pond of his memories and raking it along the bottom, sending mud and debris to flood the surface, and he hates it, hates how close beneath his skin this part of him suddenly feels. 

MacCready emerges from an office across the hall, and silently moves to join Deacon in the last room, the one with a gaping hole leading down to the mud below. There's an old projector still sitting on a table against the wall, and chalkboards behind it. But it's the door to the left that has Deacon's attention when they're satisfied no other synths are lurking nearby. It's the door to the library. 

MacCready waves him wordlessly to stand on the other side, and carefully pulls the knob open. Deacon jerks around the door jamb, pistol raised, then drops his hands, and stares. 

Jesus. It's gone.

The room he stands in isn't even a room, anymore. Only two walls still stand, and all that remains of the roof is a few wood beams, reaching up into open sky. The sprawling space that once held the stacks has sunk into the sea. 

"What is it?" MacCready circles around the door and tries to peer over Deacon's shoulder.

Deacon tries to rally himself. "Nothing. Literally. It's uh. Whatever it was, it's fish food now." Oh god, it shouldn't sting so badly to say it out loud. His eyes dart down a floor, where the piles of debris are apparently thick enough to make the water shallow, and mirelurk nests dot the mud. "More 'lurks down there, though."

MacCready wrinkles his nose. "They can have it. No reason to waste more bullets, they'll stay down there as long as no one comes looking. should be safe enough for your--guys." 

Deacon nods distantly, only half listening. It's gone. It's fucking _gone_. And it shouldn't matter this much, he hasn't been here in three solid decades and it probably should've collapsed a lot sooner, but... but it meant something. Almost all of his memories as a child are here, in this place. At least half of all the good memories he has _period_ are in this place. And yeah, he hasn't been that child in a very long time. That whole life, that whole person, is a ruin. He just didn't expect to see it presented to him so...literally. No, not presented. Thrown at him. Shoved in his face like a punch to the jaw he hadn't seen coming, sending him spinning off his feet.

"You good?" 

Deacon startles from his thoughts, and doesn't stop himself from actually jumping in time to hide it. It's the closest to patient MacCready's ever sounded toward him, which means Deacon's being obvious, or at least readable. And MacCready isn't doing the mercenary thing and taking a potshot when the aiming's easy. Deacon doesn't know what to do with that.

Anger flares, sharp with hurt, serrated with grief. He's vulnerable, and _seen_, and it makes him feel vicious. Something biting is on the tip of his tongue. He wants to pick a fight, wants MacCready to say something sharp that'll justify it, wants to ball up his fist and hit something harder than this is hitting him. 

And then he thinks of the highway tunnel, the apology MacCready never gave but was obviously biting back. Thinks of the fear draining the color from his face, the embarrassment that reddened it again later. _This isn't supposed to be tit-for-tat_, Deacon wants to snarl. Or maybe he should just reach back and rip the stealth boy out of his backpack and run. MacCready's still looking at him, Deacon can feel it, and Jesus, Deacon, say something, do something. _Don't look down, don't look down, don't look down…_

"Let's go," he manages. He makes a vague hand gesture back toward the door and dares to look up. 

MacCready stares at him with something like confusion, like he's trying to put together pieces that don't fit. But he nods, and backs out of the doorway. Deacon looks back over his shoulder one more time. He's struck by the sudden urge to take something, anything, even just a piece of the crumbling wall. Like there's some part of him that needs to remember it was really here. That of all of his names and faces, this one was real.

Something catches the light in the corner, under a little pile of dirt and trash. He moves to it, kneeling, and pulls out a brass name plate, engraved with "Healey Library." He picks it up and un-shoulders one strap of his pack, slipping it inside.

"Gotta love Old World widgets," he says when he straightens to find MacCready looking at him again. "Might be solid gold." He knows it sounds weak, and off, and wants to kick himself for it.

"Lucky you. I'll expect half the caps as a finder's fee," MacCready says. He doesn't make any other comment.

"Come on, before the 'lurks sprout wings," Deacon says, trying desperately to find his footing again. He closes the door behind him. "And at this point, I'm not putting it past all that irradiated water to _not_ make that happen. We'll fight about your cut somewhere else." 

"Great, thank you for the nightmares," MacCready mutters. "I'm upping it, then, 60 percent." 

"Not a chance, Bobby." 

"70 unless you stop calling me that."

"You'll have to catch me first." Deacon reaches back and pulls the stealth boy from the side pocket of his backpack. He smirks, and flips the switch. 

"You are such a child, you cheating mo—molerat!" MacCready calls as Deacon slips down the hall toward a metal door settlers must have put up to keep the mirelurks in. He slips through it, leaving it open, and darts around the corner to press himself against the wall and try to breathe through the tightness in his chest.

He stays quiet when MacCready emerges. MacCready looks around, then shakes his head and walks past where Deacon is standing, into the storage room. 

"All clear," he announces. Deacon hears shuffling somewhere further in.

"Where's Deacon?" Anthony asks. 

"He’s coming," MacCready says. "Get anything good?"

They fall into conversation. Did MacCready just--fucking cover for him? That would’ve been a golden opportunity to discredit Deacon, talk about him acting strange, make him sound like a liability. Maybe he just didn’t care, and just assumed Deacon would be professional enough not to disappear completely. But that would also be giving him a lot of credit, something MacCready had been going out of his way not to do. The feeling was mutual. So what the hell? He can't deal with this. _We're square,_ he wants to say. _Just be normal._

Worse, he wants to add, _Thank you._

He looks down over the railing he's standing near. The door's right there. He really could just run. Just make a break for it, head back to the Church. He'd never find a good way to explain it, but he could run until his chest doesn’t hurt, until his ears stop ringing, until everything stops feeling so fucking weird. Until this place is far behind him again.

He takes a long, slow breath. And another. Then he reaches back, clicks the stealth boy off, and moves into the storage room. 

"So, who's up for crab cakes?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1) What if I just keep trapping them in places together until they have feelings...
> 
> 2) No but seriously, who the hell was hanging out in Mass Pike Tunnel setting up those bears, and how did they do it without waking the ferals? I love running into shit like that in the game and trying to imagine an in-universe reason for it.
> 
> 3) I did actually go back to University Point in the game and pick a building to be Deacon's house. It's the second to last, tiny little boarded-up building on the left side as you're facing Sedgwick Hall, next to the liquor store.
> 
> 4) Yes, I'm a dork and Healey Library is a real library at UMass Boston, located where I'm fairly sure they meant for University Point to be based off of. 
> 
> Sorry it took me a bit to get this posted, I was having a serious battle with Chapter 5. There was blood. I have scars. There are about ninety different versions of it but I think I finally beat it into submission. It'll go up once I have a draft for Chapter 6.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter’s got it all: poker games, sneaky teens, raider attacks, and a little traumatic Vault exploration.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey all! Sorry this update took a bit. I’ve been wrestling a bit with outlining the rest of the fic before I get too far ahead of myself. I was originally planning this to be a three part series, but I think I may actually just put all of it together in this fic. So! Things to look forward to. 
> 
> Warnings for this chapter: there’s some blood and injury description in the first scene, and you can skip it if you need to without losing anything. There’s also brief, gory description of corpses in the later scenes.
> 
> Thanks as always to **serenityfails** for their tireless beta work and cheerleading.

He dreams of falling.

He dreams of air rushing past his face, his hands clutching at it--through it--without purchase. It’s cold, and it whips at his flailing limbs, pushes at his shoulders, stabs at his skin. He can’t open his eyes.

He dreams of water.

He’s falling, and crashes backwards into it, plunging through the surface. The cold shocks the breath from his lungs in a wild flurry of bubbles. He’s sinking, flailing and sinking, and in the murky dark he sees the shape of walls, of windows, of broken lines missing pieces, jutting out of the mud at the bottom. He reaches for them and his fingers pass through shadows, and he’s sinking.

Then he grasps something. Something soft. Something cold. He pulls it from the shadows and it floats into the forked diamonds of light dancing over his arms from the surface above. A body. A person. A man. Red hair, bright and strange in the dark. He knows the face. The water moves, and the body moves with it, turning like a marionette, and the face moves closer. It’s cut, cut to pieces, terrible lines carved into the cheeks, the nose, the forehead. And they bleed, dark and slow and up. The blood drifts up and up.

He reaches, and the eyes open. They open, and open, wide and frightened and bulging, _bulging_\--

Deacon gasps, ripping the blankets from his legs and knocking his pillows across the bed. It’s still dark, and he needs air, he needs to--breathe. He can breathe. He does. He gulps for air until he’s panting. He blinks until he recognizes the folds of the blanket now tossed to the foot of the bed. He looks up. There’s the desk, across the room. There’s the mirror that sits propped up in the corner of it. There’s the sign, brass glinting blue with the first scraps of light from the window. _Healey Library_.

Details. Catalogue them, count them, pick them out. _Remember they’re real._ A jacket on the floor. Socks tossed out next to it. A can of purified water on the nightstand. The sheet bunched under his fingers, hot with sweat. His lungs, aching, burning, but full of air, not water. Breathe. _Breathe_.

He stands, slowly, on legs that shake beneath him. He stumbles to the desk and pulls the mirror to him as he slumps into the leather desk chair. He stares down at his face, runs his fingers over the whole skin, and feels it damp and hot against his fingertips. He stares at his eyes, the only thing he could never really change. Not permanently. They stare back, and don’t widen. He tosses the mirror onto the desk with a clatter and braces his elbows again his knees, burying his head in his hands. And he breathes.

He hears footsteps, quiet and careful, pad down the hall. Away from this door. He looks up just as he hears another door gently close. 

He squeezes his eyes shut and drops his head back into his hands. 

\----

The bar is rapidly becoming Deacon’s favorite part of Sanctuary. If he’s going to be trapped somewhere that's boring him out of his skull, at least it’s somewhere that has alcohol. 

It doesn’t have Magnolia’s voice pouring into the air like syrup. He’s got to make do with Betty Hutton and a battered jukebox in the corner. It doesn’t have Whitechapel Charlie’s sparkling company, but Gina’s all right, she takes his caps and hands him his drinks without talking to him too much, his favorite quality in a bartender. It’s cleaner here, anyway, and well-stocked, and it doesn’t smell like old beer and bad stew. And if he’s quiet enough, and picks the right clothes, he can get the relief of being ignored, same as before. Or at least, not attracting attention. Fading into the periphery, if not the background.

“Hey, new guy! Get in on this poker game.”

“Oh yes, William! Come join us, darling.”

Well.

Mostly.

The problem with making contacts and then not _leaving_ is that then those contacts have to go and start getting the wrong idea. Like, that they should make small talk. Have a drink. Be friends. Play poker. And then Deacon not only has to spin fake names and personalities like plates, he has to start doing backflips and somersaults to _keep_ them spinning. And it also gets--familiar. Which is dangerous. There are lines. He draws them for a reason. 

_Songbird and Tommy and Roger and--_

Taking a moment to steel himself a little, he paints a charming grin across his lips and glances over at the semicircle of arm chairs and one couch in the corner. Anne perches on the end of the couch like it’s a throne, one leg draped over the other, holding a martini aloft. A ghoul sits next to her that Deacon recognizes as Weston--Pre-War ghoul, and the town’s doctor, or closest thing to. Probably the only person for miles and miles with actual, Old World medical training. Nick Valentine occupies the last seat, in town for a few days after helping Anthony with a kidnapping case in one of the other settlements. And then there’s MacCready, slouched into an armchair on Anne’s left, shuffling cards with a cigarette balanced between his teeth. Their eyes meet--well, only Deacon really knows this, sunglasses and all--and MacCready looks amused. Ugh.

He shifts the cards to one hand and plucks the cigarette from his mouth. “Yeah, _William_, play a round.”

The other _other_ problem with all of this is living with someone who already knows Deacon’s full of shit. And would take no small pleasure in watching all those plates he’s spinning crash to the ground around him in a rain of porcelain. 

All right, so things had been--a _little_ different, in the week or so since University Point. MacCready had started leaving Deacon alone in the house, for one, and stopped watching his every movement when he was there. In fact, Deacon was almost downright ignored. They each moved through the house like the other wasn’t even there, a terse nod now and again the only concession when they couldn’t avoid passing in the hall. It’s kind of a relief, but also makes Deacon wary. He certainly hasn’t dismissed MacCready as a threat, so if MacCready has stopped considering Deacon one, Deacon isn’t sure what to do with that.

He carries his drink to the only seat left, another armchair next to MacCready. “We can stick to Deacon. It’s too weird having people I work with using my first name.”

“I still prefer William, it suits you quite well,” Anne insists, her foot bobbing in the air. 

MacCready snorts, earning him a look from Anne he doesn’t see, because he’s staring at Deacon with barely-contained mirth. Jerk. 

“William Deacon sounds like one of those dusty old guys they made statues for around here,” he says, lifting his cigarette and taking a drag.

“Oh, honestly, you have no culture,” Anne chides, shaking her head.

“An exception for the lovely lady, then,” Deacon says. “You, Bobby, can call me Your Royal Majesty.”

“Drop dead,” MacCready laughs, smoke bursting from his lips. He finally starts to deal the cards, cigarette held between two fingers. “And _stop_ calling me that.”

“Honestly, Mr. MacCready, I do wonder about your manners sometimes,” Anne says. She sets her martini on the low table near her elbow and shifts forward to grab her cards. “At least William has them.”

Deacon flashes MacCready a smug smile over the top of his own cards. MacCready keeps his eyes on Deacon but leans toward Anne and stage-whispers, “I’ll give him some credit, he had to learn them all from scratch. I have it on good authority he was raised by yao guai.”

She gives him a distinctly unimpressed look, and presses her cards to her chest when she thinks he’s leaning too close. Deacon lets a round of betting go by before he says, “Listen, Mama and Papa Yao Guai did the best they could with what they had. Hard to find the time for etiquette lessons when little blonde girls are always sneaking in and stealing your porridge when your back is turned.”

“Oh my god,” Weston mutters, as MacCready rolls his eyes. “Of all the fairy tales, that’s the one that makes it through the apocalypse?”

“I was always more partial to Puss in Boots,” Deacon says. He slides two cards across the table and takes two new ones. 

“I would’ve guessed Hansel and Gretel,” Nick says, a faint smile on his grey lips.

“I do believe I’m missing something,” Anne says primly. She folds. 

“Who the heck would even fight yao guai over _porridge_?” MacCready mumbles.

Deacon laughs, lays a straight on the table, and takes the pot.

\----

“How _do_ you know so many stories?”

It’s pushing midnight, and Deacon, about twenty caps richer than he was at the start of the evening, is ambling toward the house with MacCready following. They’re both a little tipsy, and hadn’t really aimed to leave together, but Nick had left the game hours ago, followed shortly by Anne. Once Weston waved away the next hand, there hadn’t been much point in staying. 

“Why do you ask?” Deacon says, without heat. He’s genuinely a little surprised by the question, and blinks a few more times than necessary to try and get MacCready’s face to stop looking fuzzy around the edges. 

MacCready smirks, drawing up to walk side by side with Deacon. “Because I’m nosy and it’s weird.”

Deacon gives him a faint smile. “Touche.” He shrugs. ”I don’t know, I’ve done a lot of stakeouts in abandoned buildings, and we’ve moved HQs a lot. Old World people left books everywhere, and I get bored easily.” 

MacCready gives him a skeptical look. “Not much of a stakeout if you’ve got your nose in a book.”

“I pay attention when it matters,” Deacon says.

As if on cue, something moves in the shadows at the edge of Deacon’s periphery. His eyes dart toward it without his head turning, but his vision is still a little fuzzy. He just barely catches sight of someone whipping around the side of some dead shrubbery next to the house across the street. Wait. Next to _MacCready’s_ house.

“For example,” he says, much quieter, holding a hand out to stop MacCready from walking further.

“What?” MacCready says, jerking back from Deacon’s arm. He stumbles a little but catches himself.

“Shut up, follow me, and keep your eyes open,” Deacon hisses before ducking across the street (in maybe a slightly less than straight line) and pressing himself against the wall of what was once a carport. Shit, this would’ve been a lot easier sober. 

_Focus_, he commands himself. MacCready slides up against the wall next to him, bumping Deacon’s shoulder when he over-balances. He straightens and squints, giving Deacon a look somewhere between hazy and confused. Deacon lifts a finger to his lips, then peers around the edge of the wall. 

It takes a few blinks to get things to sharpen. He carefully reaches up and tips his sunglasses down his nose so he can see over the lenses. There, across the backyard--movement in the shadows, close to where the guard wall stands to block the forest from view. Someone moving along the perimeter of it, having crossed through the fence that lines the yard and into the grass beyond. Shit, shit, _shit_. This is what he gets for getting comfortable. Deacon can successfully accomplish plenty of things somewhere south of sober, but he’s not cocky enough to put “aiming a gun to save a settlement from invasion” high on that list. Maybe anywhere on that list. He finds himself strangely grateful it’s MacCready who’s gotten roped into this impromptu disaster with him. If MacCready’s sober headshots are flawless, then surely his drunken ones have a decent chance of hitting something important enough to hurt. 

“Deacon,” MacCready whispers sharply in his ear, “what the heck are we--”

“Someone’s sneaking around. Come on,” is all Deacon gives in reply before he’s off, slipping around the corner and into the yard. He tries to keep out of the light from the house’s windows, suddenly cursing his decision to throw on a white t-shirt that morning, and leave the kitchen lights on when he left for the bar. After a moment, he hears the muffled footsteps of MacCready behind him. 

Deacon glances over his shoulder as he crouches down behind some shrubbery and the broken remains of a picket fence. He gestures MacCready toward the right side of the fence, nearer the house. He can see the figure more clearly now. Whoever it is kneels right up against the guard wall, dressed in a dark hoodie with the hood drawn up. So, someone who knows how to avoid attention at night. Deacon’s hand moves to hover at his side, where Deliverer is tucked into his waistband.

There’s a knock on the wood panel where the figure waits, patterned and faint. The figure pushes up higher on their knees, and Deacon’s surprised at how short and slight they look once they’re not hunched down. They reach up to a board that makes up part of the panelling and ease it to one side, opening a rather large hole in the wall. Deacon tenses, and carefully moves his hand under his shirt to grip Deliverer firmly. At the corner of his vision he sees MacCready reaching beneath the lapel of his duster. Then there’s a flash, metal glinting in the light from the window, and he’s holding the pistol Deacon saw him use in the highway tunnel. 

A second figure tumbles through the hole in the wall, very nearly somersaulting as they hit the ground awkwardly and try to shake their feet free of the wood. The first figure lets go of the board, and it swings shut on its own. Then both of them throw their hoods back, and--wait a fucking minute, Deacon knows that girl’s face…

Maria. Daughter of one of the farmhands, probably all of 15 years old, maybe 16. The figure that had climbed through the wall is a boy, clearly not much older. It takes less than a minute before their arms tangle around each other, and they fumble their way into a kiss. 

Deacon drops his hand from his gun and hides his face in his arm to keep from exploding with laughter. He glances over at MacCready, who’s also lowered his gun. MacCready rolls his eyes, then pauses, and slowly begins to smirk. It’s Deacon’s turn to look confused, but MacCready just holds up a finger and raises the gun again. _Follow my lead_, he mouths.

Deacon watches him square his shoulders and try to smother his grin. Then he leaps to his feet, yelling, “Freeze! Keep your hands where I can see them!” 

The teenagers bolt apart, arms shooting up into the air, one of them yelping in surprise. Deacon pulls out his gun and stands, training it on them. 

“Don’t shoot!” the boy cries. “Please! I-I’m Minutemen!”

MacCready keeps the gun raised a moment longer, and Deacon’s almost positive it’s just for dramatic effect. Then MacCready slowly straightens. “Peter? What the heck do you think you’re doing?”

Deacon only lowers his gun when MacCready does. He very nearly has to bury his face in his sleeve again as Peter-the-Teenage-Minuteman holds his shaking hands aloft and stares at MacCready with wide, guilty eyes.

“It was all my idea,” Boy Wonder squeaks. “I made her go along with it.”

“Please don’t tell my mom,” Maria adds.

MacCready tucks his pistol back beneath his duster and folds his arms across his chest, walking closer to them. “So what you’re telling me is you had the brilliant idea to loosen the nails on the guard wall that is keeping raiders and ferals and god knows what else out of this settlement and sneak in, past curfew, when anything could be watching from the woods and see a way in?”

“The board was already loose,” Maria says, and then immediately realizes her mistake, closing her eyes and pursing her lips. Deacon barely stifles a snort.

“Well, thank you for reporting this information to the guard like you should have done the minute you noticed it,” MacCready says, and though his back his to Deacon, Deacon can absolutely picture the stern frown he says it with. “Anything else you’ve been sitting on?” 

Peter, who only now remembers he can lower his arms, glances off to the side of the yard. “There’s an old root cellar behind that house. Doors in the ground.” He points behind them. “That’s where we--uh. Yeah.” 

“Please, Mr. MacCready, please don’t tell Mom,” Maria pleads again. “It won’t happen again.”

“Oh, I won’t tell her,” MacCready says, and Maria visibly relaxes until he adds, “That’ll be your job.”

Her shoulders immediately slump, and it could be Deacon’s slightly foggy vision, but she looks ready to cry. 

“Peter, I think you should leave through the front door this time, let the guard know what you found, don’t you?” MacCready says, and oh, he’s laying it on _thick_. 

Peter heaves the kind of dramatic sigh only a teenage boy denied a makeout session can. “Yes, sir.”

MacCready nods toward the main street, and the two kids trudge forward around him. MacCready circles around behind them, so Deacon follows, finally letting out a snort of laughter he can’t contain any longer. MacCready elbows him in the ribs, but as he looks back, the corners of his mouth are twitching up. He looks away quickly, and they head down the sidewalk. 

“That poor kid’s ego is never going to recover,” Deacon says a few minutes later as they stand together watching Peter slouch up to the gate guard near the bridge. 

“Serves him right, that was a stupid thing to do,” MacCready says, though he’s stopped fighting the smirk now. “Could’ve gotten himself shot, or gotten the settlement in hot water, and all over something dumb--”

“Oh come on, you never snuck out to get yourself some action as a kid?” Deacon says, chuckling.

MacCready gives him a look. “Where exactly was I going to sneak out to? Murder Pass?” 

“Oh shit, I forgot, you had the weirdest childhood known to--wait, what the fuck is Murder Pass and why is it near a bunch of children?” Deacon furrows his brow. 

“It’s a long story,” MacCready says, and Deacon startles himself by almost replying, “I’ve got time.” He bites it back. Still tipsy, definitely still tipsy.

Instead he says, “Well, I guess living with every kid you know in one cave does make it more convenient. Just sneaking between bunks instead of houses.”

“Why am I not surprised to learn you spent _your_ childhood sneaking around places you weren’t supposed to be?” MacCready says, shaking his head.

“Had to start somewhere.” Deacon grins. 

They begin walking back up the street, passing in and out of the street lights lining the sidewalk every few feet. Deacon looks up at the power line that connects them one to another, on toward some generator he can hear humming behind one of the buildings. Adrenaline seems to have sobered them enough to walk without stumbling, but Deacon still has to blink away haloes around the lights. 

“That was one impressive guilt trip, by the way,” he says idly, slipping his hands into his pockets. 

MacCready huffs a laugh. “I’ve had a lot of practice keeping dumb kids in line.”

Deacon leans his head back, eyes drifting from the street lights to look up at the sky. “Well, you’ll make an excellent father some day.”

He expects a laugh, or some kind of dismissive scoff. He’s met instead with silence, and it stretches long enough that he looks over. He catches the flicker of a pained look being smoothed into something blank on MacCready’s face. MacCready makes no reply, but the mood shifts, and the silence sits heavy between them. 

It’s a misstep. He feels it like instinct, feels the weight of that silence as though it’s dropped straight onto his shoulders and he’s stumbling to stay upright beneath it. _Why_ is it a misstep?

_Something about a sick child…_

Anne’s words hammer through Deacon’s thoughts, loud and sudden. Oh, shit. That can’t be it. Can it? He looks over at MacCready again, completely forgetting in his shock to do it with his eyes and not turn his head. But the neutral look stays, and MacCready stares ahead. 

Deacon doesn’t know how to pick up the pieces of the conversation. So he drops it. They drift into the house, one after the other, and MacCready doesn’t look back as he mumbles, “Think I’ll turn in.”

“Right,” Deacon says, distantly, watching MacCready’s door shut behind him. 

He means to say, _I’m sorry_. And that’s jarring. It shouldn’t matter. He didn’t do it on purpose and he doesn’t fully understand what it is that he did. And anyway, it’s MacCready. Remember? Thoughtless jerk, coldhearted mercenary..?

So why does Deacon feel like the thoughtless jerk instead?

\----

He sees that look again in profile two days later, and it stops him short in the middle of the sidewalk. He’d been ambling up from Anne’s shop, freshly tailored jacket in one hand and a pin cushion she’d made him hold and then forgot to retrieve in the other. It’s shaped like a tato and riddled with holes, and he’s tossing it in the air like a baseball when he reaches the house and sees MacCready standing in the carport, feet apart, rifle drawn, aiming into the yard beyond. That look on his face. Deacon almost forgets to catch the pin cushion.

He draws close enough to see into the yard when MacCready doesn’t react to him. There’s a board set up against the rickety picket fence with a poster pasted on. Some old ad, head to torso, of a smiling man holding a donut. Covered in bullet holes.

“I guess I’ll skip ‘how are you’ and go straight to being grateful that’s not _my_ portrait,” Deacon says, leaning his shoulder against the pillar holding up one side of the roof. MacCready fires off another shot, hitting Donut Dan straight in his wooden heart.

“I picked him for the resemblance,” MacCready says, but it’s half-hearted. He sounds tired, and distracted.

Deacon squints at the picture. “Never tried going blonde before, and I’m not really seeing the appeal if it’s going to make you want to shoot me.”

“You always make me want to shoot you,” MacCready mutters. He fires again, as if to demonstrate.

“It’s a gift.”

“You should return it.” MacCready lowers the rifle and kneels, beginning to reload from a box of ammo at his feet. Deacon pushes off the pillar--he can take a hint--and turns to head inside when MacCready says, “Will you just rip the band-aid off already?”

Deacon looks back, then around. “Was that directed at me?”

“Come on, you’re a better liar than this,” MacCready says, eyes darting up with a pinched look. He looks back down and loads the bullets, letting the brim of his hat cover his face. “Just get it over with. Do the decent thing and ask me what you want to know.” 

Deacon blinks at him through the sunglasses, slipping his hands in his pockets. “Uh, okay. I mean, I’d really love to know if you’ve ever eaten anything that didn’t come out of a 200 year old box. And if you’ve ever thought about hanging a picture on the wall and not the fence. And, okay, I’ll admit you got me with Murder Pass--”

“You have to be a dick about it even now,” MacCready shakes his head as he stands again and cocks the gun. “Can’t even just be a normal human and ask me instead of snooping around--”

“Okay, I _really_ don’t know the passphrase to get into this conversation,” Deacon says, folding his arms over his chest.

MacCready jerks his head around and snaps, “Just fucking ask me about my son, asshole!”

Deacon can probably count on one hand the times in his life he’s been at a loss for words. This may have just tipped him onto the second hand. He stands there, frozen, staring, his mind a complete blank. MacCready just glares back at him, his jaw tight and his shoulders tensed up to his ears, until something in his expression falters.

“You--I mean that’s--what you meant, right?” he says. “When you said all that stuff?” He gestures vaguely toward the sidewalk behind Deacon.

“Listen, champ, I’m really flattered you apparently think I’m good enough to be a mind-reader but let’s just pretend, for the sake of argument, that I’m not, and might need to stop and ask for directions every now and again.” Deacon digs his fingers into his freshly-tailored sleeves.

MacCready frowns. “The stupid thing you said about me making a good father. I know that was your way of dropping it on me, that you know about my kid. Like it was real fu--freaking funny that I had to leave him--”

MacCready stops short, apparently taking in the expression on Deacon’s face. Deacon’s probably gaping at him at this point. But Jesus, he feels like someone’s rowed him out into the middle of a lake and dropped him in blindfolded, then told him to go find the dangerous irradiated barrels leaking into the water on the bottom. 

MacCready’s shoulders slowly drop. “God, you--you really didn’t know, did you.”

“Hi! Welcome to _this_ conversation,” Deacon says.

“Crap,” MacCready scrubs the hand not holding his rifle over his face, and tugs the brim of his hat a little lower. Deacon wonders if he even knows he’s doing it. “You’re the one who told me to assume you know things.”

“Things relevant to my job, yeah,” Deacon says, unfolding his hands to hold them out as though presenting MacCready’s ridiculousness to him on a platter. “I know all about your five minute Gunner career and your mercenary track record. I knew you were from the Capital Wasteland before you told me. I _don’t_ know your mother’s name, or your shoe size, or your favorite color, because that’s not going to tell me if you’re going to come after the Railroad or not.” He pauses, dropping his hands and looking away. “And I realize I make it difficult to tell, but I wasn’t actually lying about snooping through the house. I didn’t.” He almost repeats his dig from a couple weeks ago--_you’re just not that interesting_\--but that just flew right the fuck out the window, didn’t it?

MacCready turns away, but Deacon can tell from the way he lifts his arm and leans his head that he’s rubbing his forehead in frustration. He keeps his back to Deacon as he says, “All right. Sh--Crap. Great. So, now you know. I have a son. He’s almost 4. He’s obviously not here. And I don’t want to talk about it.” 

“Okay,” Deacon says, starting to hold up his hands in a placating gesture MacCready can’t see. “I mean, _you_ brought it up--”

“Oh will you just--” MacCready turns back, but before he can finish, a gunshot cuts through the air, and then a yell. Deacon whirls around and sees the main street suddenly full of settlers running toward them, a few dodging behind buildings or running inside the houses. There’s another gunshot, and then another, pinging off of something metal.

“Raiders! It’s raiders! Run!” someone cries.

Members of the guard come dashing down the street toward the old dirt path that leads back into the woods. There’s a gate there, Deacon remembers seeing it, but the woods stretch up a high hill beyond it, well above the reach of the guard wall. Where the Vault is. 

“Son of a bitch,” Deacon says, pulling Deliverer out of his waistband. 

Gunfire fills the air, bullets pelting the walls, the mud, and the concrete all around where that dirt path starts. MacCready’s already breaking into a run toward a group of settlers throwing themselves against the wall of the house next door. Deacon almost trips over himself to follow.

“We need to get them out of the open,” Deacon calls. 

“No shit!” MacCready snaps back. 

“The root cellar,” Deacon says, as they reach the group. 

“The what?” 

“The place those kids were going to make out,” Deacon says, jerking his head back the way they’d come. “They said it was over there somewhere, right?” 

MacCready looks at him, then back at the group of settlers eyeing the two of them with pure panic, then back at Deacon. He nods once, and Deacon yells, “Come on! Keep your heads down and follow me!” 

He keeps low, and leads them around the front of MacCready’s house. He pauses, taking a careful look around, and then leads the way around the back of the house next door. Sure enough, he finds two black metal doors in the ground. 

“Please be unlocked, please be unlocked,” he mutters and tugs at one of them. It gives, though the rusty hinges take a little force to coax open. He waves the settlers over, muttering, “Quickly, down the ladder, go, go.” 

MacCready brings up the rear, rifle in hand, eyes on the street. As the last of the settlers drops down into the cellar, Deacon leans his head in. 

“Anyone got a weapon?” 

One of the settlers shakily pulls out at 10 mm handgun, lifting it a little. Deacon nods. “Keep that pointed at the door. Don’t come out until the guard comes.” 

He closes the doors quickly, wincing at the loud creak of the hinges. He looks up at MacCready, who’s still keeping an eye on the street, training his gun around the side of the house. The gunfire is distant now, and slowing, but still audible.

“Let’s go,” Deacon says. MacCready looks back at him, so Deacon nods toward the street. 

“We need to check the walls,” MacCready says. 

“But the guard--”

“Raider tactics. Get the guard focused in one place and sneak the rest of your goons in somewhere else.” 

Deacon looks at him for a moment, then nods, and checks Deliever’s clip. “Lead the way, then.”

\---

“They came from the woods,” Torres says, not half an hour later. He points to the gate covering the path to the Vault, now flung open. Bullet casings and blood spatter litter the dirt. The path is lined with leather-clad bodies, all the way up into the woods. MacCready crouches near one of them, her face a mangled mess and her arms flung back behind her head. Deacon looks away.

“We’re damn lucky we got that wall finished last week,” another of the guard, Moretti, says as he knocks on the wood panelling of the gate. “Just need to finish the tower--”

“What about the Vault?” Deacon asks, kicking at one of the bullet casings with the toe of his sneaker. The guards both pause and look over at him.

“We sent a couple guys up there to check the site, they caught the stragglers,” Torres says.

“No, I mean the Vault itself,” Deacon says. He squints at the trees up the hill. “Did anyone check the inside?”

The guards exchange looks. 

“No one ever, uh--goes up--”

“Can you even open it without one of those, uh, you know--that thing the General wears?”

“No one goes up there? Seriously?” Deacon turns to look at MacCready, who’s slowly standing and tucking a few unspent bullets into the belt around his thigh. “You can’t tell me you didn’t notice what a perfect sniper’s perch that hill is. There’s no way _you_ overlooked that.”

“I didn’t overlook it,” MacCready says tightly. He checks over the pipe pistol he’s pulled from one of the bodies, a convenient way to avoid Deacon’s eyes. “It was the first thing I mentioned after Red Rocket.”

Deacon raises his eyebrow, gesturing his hand in a wordless question. MacCready sighs.

“Anthony… wanted us to leave it alone,” he says. “He wanted it shut and sealed.” 

“Why would he--”

“Why do you think?” MacCready says, a little sharp.

Deacon frowns. “All right, I get it, it’s got some bad memories attached to it, but he’s not here, and neither is Garvey, and if it _can_ be opened, it might be full of raiders right now.”

MacCready purses his lips, glancing at the guards, then at Deacon. He murmurs a choked off curse, tosses the pistol to Moretti, and pulls his rifle forward over his shoulder. “Come on.”

It’s an unsettling walk up the hill. Bullet holes split the bark of several trees lining the path, and dead raiders sprawl at odd angles every few steps. Worse, they find a skeleton near the top, half-sunken beneath a pile of rotting leaves and dirt, wrapped in a floral print dress. Then another, at the chain link fence near the top, bony arm stretched toward the gate. Deacon tries not to let it feel like an omen. 

It’s quiet on the hilltop. Torres breaks off to check a dirty trailer parked in the corner, and Moretti moves up a ramp toward another. Deacon and MacCready circle around opposite sides of the Vault platform, picking their way past toppled crates and loose gravel. Deacon kneels near a lever on the platform’s edge, reaching to see if he can budge it. A loud alarm sounds before his hand touches the metal, and he yanks it back. 

“Found the button!” Moretti calls, poking his head out. Torres comes running from the other side, gun raised. 

“Guess you don’t need a Pip-Boy after all, then,” MacCready says. “But we definitely would’ve heard this going off down there.” He peeks over the edge toward the settlement, and Deacon crosses the platform to look with him. A few settlers have popped out of their houses, shielding their eyes to see up the hill.

The platform suddenly jerks beneath Deacon’s feet, making him stumble. MacCready whips around as it slowly, loudly, begins to lower. MacCready jumps on, and Torres and Moretti come scrambling into view to join them. The four of them circle around the middle, and raise their weapons.

The alarm sounds the whole slow descent underground, until the platform sinks down in front of a gate and settles with a shudder. The gate automatically grinds open, the metal shrieking in protest. 

“Holy shit,” Torres hisses.

\----

Okay, fine, Deacon can see why Anthony wanted this place shuttered. He wrinkles his nose as the heavy scents of mold and wet metal hit him, and he nearly trips over the crumbling bones of yet another skeleton as he steps off the entrance walkway. And that isn’t the only one. For an awful moment, Deacon’s standing back in the mud at Switchboard, Roger at his feet. He squeezes his eyes shut, raises his head, and doesn’t look down again.

“We’ll take that one,” he hears Moretti whisper. Deacon looks over to see him pointing toward the leftmost of two doors, and Torres is already moving to press himself to the wall next to it.

“Deacon, let’s go.”

Deacon turns to see MacCready already waiting by the other one, a suggestion that he missed his first prompt to move. Damn it. He steps over the skeleton, willing himself to focus, and stands across from MacCready. MacCready hits the button and the door slides up with a quiet _swish_. The two of them peek carefully into the hallway beyond, guns drawn. It’s empty. Nothing but dim lights and piping weaving in and out of the walls. The air that hits them is cool, and that musty, wet smell grows stronger. There’s a mechanical sort of hum that seems to come from the walls themselves all through the Vault, but it’s otherwise quiet, and very still.

MacCready steps in first, tiptoeing to the wall to stand just out of sight of a window into another room. Deacon waits for him to give a thumbs up, then moves along the opposite wall, past the entrance to another corridor and opting first for a room at the end of the hall. 

He moves carefully inside, trying to make sense of what he’s seeing. A few steps down, past some stray tools and crates and a wall terminal, there are several giant metal boxes surrounded by wires, tanks, and panels. At the very end, one of them stands open, the front half of it suspended in the air.

This is it. The cryo-pods.

Deacon hadn’t known what to picture when he first heard Anthony’s story. He found himself imagining giant refrigerators at first, but “pod” made him think of silt beans, and then they morphed into strange bean-shaped mega-fridges in his mind and stuck that way. To be honest, this doesn’t make much more sense.

He steps down, looking more between the pods than at them, trying to spot anyone hiding in the shadows between them. He reaches the open one at the end and stops to stare at the cushioning inside for a moment.

“Damn, Bullseye,” he mumbles. 

Walking through the room feels like walking through the ruins of another person’s nightmare: eerie but inert, the terror long since spent but still imprinted, somehow. An echo of something he doesn’t know the shape of. He shakes his head, and turns away. And comes face-to-face with the pod directly across. 

There’s a window in the front, and he sees a figure, slumped back and bent. He tenses, freezing, but it doesn’t move. His heart begins to pound. He steps forward, one step, then another, and looks in.

Fallen back against the cushioning is a woman. Her brown hair fans out over her neck and on the cushion behind her. Her skin is colorless, translucent, and slowly beginning to decompose. There’s a single gunshot wound splitting her forehead. His eyes settle on the face.

It’s Barbara’s.

Deacon reels back, tripping over a cord and slamming backward into the open pod behind him. His sunglasses tumble off his nose, landing somewhere below his feet. He reaches blindly for the control panel next to him to keep from collapsing. Panic seizes his chest. Distantly, he hears a clatter. Then a thunderous sawing noise, louder and louder. It takes him a moment to recognize it’s him, panting against the tightness in his chest.

Somewhere beyond the room, muffled and faint beneath the noise of his breathing, he hears his name. His eyes dart to the pod in front of him in alarm.

“Oh god--” he rasps, trying to shrink back further.

He hears it again, closer, and squeezes his eyes shut as he clings to the panel. No, no, no, _no_...

He yells when something grabs his arm, punching out blindly. The grip tightens, and he hears his name, right in his ear, but that’s not her voice. It’s--it’s--

“MacCready?” Deacon opens his eyes, and finds MacCready looking down at him, wide-eyed and startled.

“Jesus, Deacon, what the hell happened?” MacCready says, looking him over. For injury, Deacon realizes. He looks up at the pod across from them again, but he can’t see her from this angle.

“I saw--” he pants out, staring up, “I--I thought I saw--”

MacCready follows his gaze, then looks away, gritting his teeth. “Yeah, I know.” Then his brow bends, confused. “Did...did you not?”

Deacon’s eyes slowly settle back on MacCready, and he’s coming back to himself enough to realize there aren’t any sunglasses shielding them. And he’s shaking. MacCready’s still gripping his arm, so there’s really no hiding it. Shit. 

“Know what?” he forces out.

“About the pods, the--you know, the people. Still being here,” MacCready says. “About--_her_.”

Deacon blinks up at the pod again. “Her?”

“Anthony’s wife,” MacCready says quietly.

Deacon’s brow furrows. Anthony’s wife? He shifts his feet, and his back, and pulls against the panel to try and stand. MacCready helps him up, bracing his shoulder. When Deacon rights himself, he pulls out of MacCready’s grip to look at the pod window again. 

Black hair. Not brown. Too short. A face he doesn’t recognize. 

Not her.

“Jesus,” Deacon says. “Oh, fuck me--”

“That’s why he keeps people away,” MacCready says. “It’s kind of a--a graveyard.”

Deacon scrubs his shaking hands over his face, and presses the heels of his palms to his eyes. He’d known Anthony’s wife was dead. He’d known she was killed. He hadn’t known how, hadn’t even thought to ask. He never once considered that she wasn’t buried somewhere, or burned. Or just gone. That she might still be here, in this place. Jesus fucking Christ. 

Footsteps bounding up the corridor make them both tense, and turn sharply toward the door. But it’s just Torres, out of breath, leaning over his knees.

“All clear, sir,” he says. “No sign of raiders. I gotta tell you, though, there’s--a lot of useful shit down here. There’s some weapons, ammo, and we found a whole crate of the Pip band things.”

“Really?” MacCready says. Deacon takes a few steps away toward the back wall, pretending to examine a tool box propped in the corner. He bends over it and tries to control his breathing.

“Yes, sir, they look pretty intact. We could probably get some good use out of the furniture too. Er, that is--if the General gives the okay.”

There’s a pause, and then MacCready says, “Grab what you can carry. We’ll worry about the rest later.”

Deacon hears Torres’ footsteps retreat back down the hall. There’s a rustle of cloth, and a scraping noise. 

“Hey. Here.”

Deacon turns, and finds MacCready holding out his sunglasses. Deacon stares at his hand for a moment, then his face. MacCready’s pursing his lips, looking back at Deacon with--something. Sympathy, maybe. It feels weird to be on the receiving end of a look like that from MacCready. Deacon takes the shades and slips them back on. 

“And this,” MacCready adds, holding out Deliverer with his other hand. “You, um. Good?”

Deacon tucks the gun behind him, into his waistband. The metal sits cool against his spine. He clears his throat and nods. MacCready nods back, and leads the way out of the room.

It doesn’t occur to Deacon until they’re standing on the surface again that MacCready never asked what it was that Deacon thought he saw. He watches MacCready march down the hill ahead of him, arms full with one of the Vault crates. The gratitude leaves a lump in throat as big as the grief, and he swallows down both, letting them burn in his chest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1) I’m assuming many people are familiar with MacCready’s background but in case you haven’t played Fallout 3: Murder Pass is a supermutant-infested part of the area near Little Lamplight, where MacCready grew up.
> 
> 2) My mom has had a pin cushion like the one I gave Deacon since I was a kid. Just fun fact.
> 
> 3) I know there’s not really much to be practically done about the bodies in the Vault but lord it must be creepy having that right next to your settlement like an underground crypt. Hence why Anthony’s kinda wanted it hushed up, among other reasons.
> 
> 4) This is my universe now so pip-boys for everyone 
> 
> Chapter 6 rough draft is finished and will go up after edits and once I have a draft for Chapter 7. Thanks for reading!


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A roadside encounter leads to some discussion and maybe changes of heart. Plus, robot racing! And existential crises!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies that this update took a little bit, it's been a busy and exhausting month for me, and Chapter 7 was giving me some trouble. But here we are at last. Eternal thanks and praise to **serenity-fails** for beta work and kind listening. 
> 
> No warnings for this one! Just good old-fashioned tension.

Grief is a strange thing.

There’s a part of it that’s loss—a chasm that thundered open in his life, hollow and deep. It’s not as simple as a tear, as one piece cut away that leaves the rest whole. Like her fingers twined between his, her lips pressed between his, her legs tangled with his, she had poured into the spaces in his life, and he into hers—loving without borders, without limits, until there was no separation, and no seam. To lose her wasn’t just to be left with empty space. It was having pieces of himself torn off, bleeding and jagged, skin to bone. Like an earthquake breaking bedrock, shifting topsoil, and carving out a new, uneven, unknown landscape split with the scars of it. 

But it isn’t only the loss, and the lack. It’s the ruins of her that do linger in him, the pieces he has left that fit nowhere and no one. Things that should have died when she did, should have faded without her, leaves without sun. And yet.

It was tangible things, when it first happened. Clothes still in drawers. Trinkets on the dresser, on the shelves. The box of Old World snack cakes she liked still open in the pantry. The book sitting on the nightstand half-read, bookmark still pressed between the pages. The bits and pieces left for him to touch, to clutch against his chest, to make him believe some part of her might still touch him in return. 

But long after those things were lost, too, it was the habits, the routines, the homeless knowledge of who she was.

He gets a bowl of stew and lifts his spoon to pick out the carrots, because she hates carrots. A song comes on the jukebox and he’s turning to slide off the barstool because this one reminds her too much of her dad. He starts stacking the comic books MacCready leaves on the coffee table because she was always complaining when he’d leave his like that. These automatic things, started and stopped when he remembers, imprinted too deep in him. These are the last things he has left of her.

He carries her inside himself like a memorial. She lives in his muscle memory, and his instincts.

And in his dreams.

When he was younger, he thought of ghosts the way he saw them in the movies from the library: figures gliding through the darkness under old, white sheets. Now he knows that ghosts are things you hold in yourself. In the names, the faces, the voices that live in your head long after they leave the world around you. They live in the parts of you once touched, and loved, and changed. In the things you can’t forget.

So when Deacon stands in Anthony’s kitchen, two days after standing in the Vault, and watches Anthony listen to MacCready explain it all, he knows the moment the ghost passes before Anthony’s eyes. He knows that shadow of grief, the shape and depth of it, the storm surge violence of it held under the skin only with long and bitter practice.

Deacon doesn’t need his catalogue knowledge of facial expressions, hard-earned and well-used, to know the face Anthony makes now. The twist of the lips, the bend of the brow, the eyes fixed on something he isn’t seeing. MacCready doesn’t mention what they saw underground, but he doesn’t have to. Anthony knows.

And for the first time since meeting Anthony, Deacon sees a man he can understand. 

“I’d rather it be left alone,” Anthony says, his voice scraping in his throat. He presses his hands to the countertop, and doesn’t look at either of them. “But the raiders have made that a moot point.”

He sighs. His eyes drift to the counter’s edge, and after a moment, they flutter closed. Deacon hears the soft click of nails on the floor as Dogmeat trots around the counter and presses his nose to Anthony’s thigh. Anthony reaches down automatically to scratch behind his ears.

And yes, Deacon says to his instincts, to his fears, it could be a play. Even now. It could be the performance of a lifetime. But it looks a hell of a lot like Deacon’s watching a man as broken as he is, who’s holding everyone else on his shoulders and still trying to keep his head above water anyway.

“We’ll build a post up there, on the surface,” Anthony says, looking down at Dogmeat as he runs his hand over his fur. “But after we take what you think is worth taking out of the Vault, _that_ stays shut.” His mouth twists a little, and he looks up at MacCready. “I’m—I’m sorry to ask this, but—”

“No, I get it. I’ll do it,” MacCready says immediately. “Moretti and Torres saw the other half but I don’t think they got a close look at the pods. Just me and Deacon. I’ll take them up and we’ll get what we can.”

“I’ll help,” Deacon says. He feels MacCready’s eyes on him.

“Sure you won’t be too busy gossiping with Anne?” MacCready says, but it’s toothless, and quiet. It’s an out. Another cover. Deacon knows it immediately, and he’s caught off guard enough that it takes him a moment to respond.

“And miss basking in your delightful presence? Perish the thought,” Deacon says. He raises his eyes, turning his head enough for MacCready to get that he’s looking back under the sunglasses, and holds his gaze. _Why are you doing this? Why do you keep doing this? You don’t even like me._ After a moment, MacCready gives him a single, small nod, barely a tilt of the head.

If Anthony catches what passes between them, he doesn’t say anything. “I just don’t want rumors.” His eyes flit to Deacon again. “I’m sorry you had to see it. No one should. If people find out what’s up there—”

“I know,” MacCready says, and Deacon shakes his head a little. MacCready’s voice softens as he adds, “Don’t worry, okay? I get it. You know I do.”

Anthony lets out a shaky breath. “Thank you.” He looks to Deacon again. “Both of you. Not just for—for this. That attack could’ve cost lives.”

“I mean, credit really goes to the horny teenagers we caught,” Deacon says, aiming for levity, and trying to pull his own mind away from the memory of the pods. It surprises a smile onto Anthony’s face, at least. “Never underestimate the creative hiding skills of a kid trying to get lucky.”

Anthony chuckles, and Deacon counts it as a win. “Well, whatever the case, I don’t know what they would have done without the both of you. Thank you.” 

“Just doing my job,” MacCready mumbles, looking uncomfortable.

“Just not being a _total_ asshole,” Deacon says. He lays the back of his hand next to his lips and loudly whispers, “No matter what Bobby tells you.” 

MacCready rolls his eyes. “Yeah, yeah, you’re only a quarter asshole on your dad’s side, or something. Put your caps where your mouth is, _William_, and get to work.” 

“Actually, before you go,” Anthony holds up a hand. “We stopped at HQ on the way back from the castle. No, I want you in on this too, RJ.” 

MacCready stops halfway to the door, turning back in surprise. Anthony glances at Deacon. “Desdemona pitched me on trying out a safehouse under the guise of a Minutemen settlement. And Preston and I have agreed to look into it.”

Deacon raises his eyebrows. He knew things were heading in that direction, or at least that Dez wanted them to head in that direction. But Deacon’s surprised she made a move without getting the explicit thumbs up from him first. He’d sent a couple reports back, scant on the details, and mostly positive, but still with clear suspicion and uncertainty. Were things really getting that desperate? If they had Randolph back, that added a safehouse to the roster, but had they lost another in the meantime? Was the volume of “packages” increasing again? Shit, he’d been away way too fucking long to not know these things.

“I mean, hey, that’s like—crazy great news,” Deacon says, carefully keeping the wariness out of his voice. “Glad to hear you’re on board.”

Anthony gives him a tired smile. “Well, I’m going to need some help making it happen. P. A. M. chose a spot, but it’s going to need clearing, and I want to see for myself if it’s really going to work. And I want MacCready to weigh in on the right way to make it defensible, while you weigh in on the right way to make it subtle.”

Deacon nods, already beginning to do the math in his head. He’s a little grateful to have something concrete to occupy his thoughts. “Yeah, this could get—complicated. The settler situation, how need-to-know we can reasonably make it, fielding tourists and runners—” 

“Right,” Anthony says. “So I want you both to come with me, if you’re up for a long trip. The Castle’s walls should be finished by the time we start heading back, so I’ll need to stop there, and I have to put in an appearance with the Brotherhood. The settlement is north of there, in Nahant, on the ocean.” 

MacCready frowns. “That’s raider territory.” 

“Libertalia,” Deacon agrees, folding his arms. “Okay so it’s not going to _get_ complicated, it _is_ complicated. On the other hand, that might make some of the more ambitious snoops think twice.” 

“I haven’t been that far north of Nordhagen yet, since—” Anthony waves away the rest of the sentence, gesturing vaguely in the direction of the Vault. “I’ll trust your judgment, whatever you think.” 

MacCready shifts a little on his feet. “Since we’re heading out, any chance we could—um, you know, when we talked about—”

Anthony presses his lips together. “We’re heading too far south. I’m sorry, RJ. I promise you, we’ll go there as soon as we can. We can stop in Goodneighbor, though, if you want to drop anything off with Daisy.” 

MacCready nods a few too many times, looking away. He’s careful about it, but even under the rumpled lines of the duster, Deacon can see his shoulders drop a little. Huh. “Right. Well, yeah, sure, after we clear out the Vault, then. Whatever you want.” 

“Yeah, boss, I’m always up for a road trip,” Deacon says. “I’ll bring the good snacks if you _don’t_ bring the music.” 

Anthony gives a bit of a half-hearted laugh. “I have to keep it on sometimes, Deacon. And I haven’t seen a single good snack since I woke up.” 

“Leave it to me,” Deacon says. “I’ll roast the squirrel bits myself.” 

“Goody,” Anthony says flatly. MacCready laughs.

——

“You didn’t.”

“I did. I did! Ask Nick. When we get back, just ask him.”

“Bullseye, I’ve told some wild stories in my time—”

“Seriously, ask Nick, he was there.” Anthony laughs as he saunters downhill. Deacon follows, picking his way over the uneven concrete of the road. “I’m surprised he hasn’t told the story already.”

“And give away your secret identity? Nick’s not a rat,” MacCready says, marching down behind them. 

They’re about five minutes down the road from Starlight, past the train tracks and heading toward the overpass vaulting up into the sky overhead. It had taken them until midday to reach this far, and Deacon’s already regretting the plaid button-down clinging to his back. Sweat gathers under his collar, and he pops a button free at his throat to let air hit his skin. It hardly helps. Fuck travelling in sticky, stagnant fucking July.

“So you’re telling me,” he says as he tugs his collar loose, squinting at Anthony from behind his shades, “that not only are you the one that was bouncing around Goodneighbor as the Silver Shroud, you actually faced down a raider gang in costume and negotiated for a hostage in character.”

“I did,” he says again, flashing a smirk over his shoulder. “To be fair, the costume is armored. And the guy had Kent at gunpoint. I thought—I don’t know, that it might throw him off enough that I could get a shot in first. And I was right. Got his goons to back down, too—”

“When the hell did you find the time to do this between saving the Minutemen from obscurity and building like eight little sleeper cities all over the Commonwealth?” Deacon says as he ducks around some scrubby brush at the edge of the road.

“I mean it’s not like I walked out of the Vault with all the resources we have now,” Anthony says. “It took time. And the caps for it all had to come from somewhere.” 

“So your first instinct was to become a comic book character,” Deacon says with a snort.

“I mean, it did net me some caps,” Anthony says. 

“Okay, next time, I demand you take me with you. I have to see this for myself. I could be your Mistress of Mystery.” Deacon waggles his eyebrows, and Anthony laughs.

“The woman sidekick?” MacCready asks from behind him.

Deacon glances over his shoulder. “Come on, look at these legs. I could totally pull it off.” He puts his hands on his hips and cocks them to the side, curling one knee up. He catches the corners of MacCready’s mouth twitching up. 

“I spent a month or two as a girl, you know. A few face changes ago.” Deacon drops his hands, falling into step beside MacCready.

“I’m sure that was enlightening,” MacCready says, giving Deacon a look caught somewhere between skeptical and amused.

“Probably the easiest time I ever had getting intel,” Deacon says. “But after awhile… men are pigs.”

“No argument here,” MacCready says. Then he pauses, looking at something over Deacon’s shoulder at the same time Deacon hears voices. MacCready raises his scope, and Anthony follows suit as Deacon turns. 

Three figures stand at the edge of the road ahead of them, looking like they’re in the middle of an argument. They’re not wearing the usual raider gear, and Gunners travel in bigger packs and favor military fatigues. Children of Atom always look like they made their clothes out of potato sacks and duct tape. But if they’re traders, or hunters, they’re traveling pretty light. So, settlers, or mercenaries. He frowns and reaches back to put a hand on Deliverer’s grip. Then one of the figures pulls out a rifle, and aims it at his companion.

“Hey, whoa, whoa! What are you doing?” Anthony calls, immediately jogging toward them. Deacon pulls his gun free and raises it as he follows. MacCready brings up the rear, hanging back a little. 

“Don’t come any closer, friend,” the man holding the rifle growls. “This doesn’t concern you.”

“Please, help!” the other man cries, hands shaking above his head. “They’re going to kill me!”

The last of the group, a woman in roughened leathers and short sleeves, inches closer to Trigger Happy and eyes them nervously. “Fred…” she hisses softly.

“Tell me what’s going on,” Anthony says. He lowers his own gun, but keeps it in his grip, finger poised near the trigger.

Mr. Apparently-Named-Fred curls his lip, jerking his rifle’s barrel toward his companion. “This thing’s a _synth_, that’s what.”

Son of a bitch. Deacon turns his head a little, until he can see MacCready in his peripheral, hardly two feet away. MacCready stiffens at Fred’s words, and shifts the butt of his sniper rifle to brace against his shoulder--not quite obviously aimed, but it would only take a twitch of reflex. Shit. _Shit_. Deacon takes a small, subtle step to the left, pushing himself into the edge of MacCready’s sight line. 

“We’ve been traveling with it for weeks,” Fred plows on, “But then today he finally let slip he’s an Institute errand boy! The whole fucking time.” 

“Because I thought you were my friends!” the synth says. Deacon shifts his feet, another inch to the left, and another, closing the gap between him and Anthony to narrow MacCready’s sight line further. Surely he wouldn’t be stupid enough to actually do this here, when Anthony’s already made his sympathies clear, but Deacon’s not taking chances. He risks another careful turn of the head, angling it to look like he’s glancing at Anthony. MacCready hasn’t moved, but he hasn’t lowered the gun, either.

“I’d never be friends with a damn synth,” Fred says. The woman behind him tightens her fists, looking anxiously between them.

“You already _were_ friends with a synth!” the other man says. “Now, please. Just—just let me go!”

Fred scowls. “You think I’m stupid? You’re just gonna run off and get your Institute buddies to come put us down. That ain’t happening, pal.”

“I’m not with the Institute. I ran away!” the synth says. Deacon’s jaw tightens. “I just need to get to Bunker Hill. Then I swear I will never bother you again.” The synth’s eyes flit to Anthony. “Please. You believe me, right? You can’t let him do this!”

“Bullseye…” Deacon murmurs. 

“I know,” Anthony whispers back. Louder, he says, “You need to let him go. Think about it. If he meant to hurt you, wouldn’t he have done it already?”

“I would never do that. You’re my friends,” the synth says, and it’s all Deacon can do to keep from just stepping between him and Fred and grabbing the damn rifle out of Fred’s hands.

“They got a point, Fred,” the woman finally pipes up. She curls a hand around Fred’s elbow. “He’s had all the chances in the world to harm us… maybe—maybe we should just let him go.”

“I…” Fred’s hands tighten on the rifle, and Deacon tenses, poised to wrench Deliverer up, but then Fred’s grip goes slack. He drops one hand to his side and shakes his head. 

“All right,” he says. The synth slowly begins to lower his hands, watching Fred with wide eyes. 

Fred scowls at him again, jabbing a finger toward him as he snaps, “But if I _ever_ see you again, I’m putting one right between your eyes.”

Then he turns on his heel, grabbing the woman’s arm and just about dragging her away. She looks back at the synth as she stumbles behind him, nearly tripping over a jutting piece of the road. The synth’s shoulders drop. Then he looks at Anthony, pained, and near tears. 

“Oh my god. Oh, thank you, Thank you,” he says, his voice breaking. Deacon finally turns all the way to look back at MacCready. He’s got the sniper rifle loose in his hands, lips in a tight line, but he stays still. 

Anthony says gently, “It’s all right. You’re going to be fine. What’s your name?”

“J-Jules.” The synth presses his shaky hands to his face, and sniffs. 

“I’m Anthony. Come on, Jules, there’s a settlement just up here that’ll give you a hand, okay? I’ll walk you. Just… keep things quiet for now, about you,” Anthony says. “And let me do the talking.”

“Oh believe me, lesson learned,” Jules says. He lets Anthony guide him back toward the road.

Deacon looks to MacCready again, and watches him swing the strap of his rifle back. His eyes are on Anthony, a strange expression tightening his features. 

“Stupid thing to do, announcing himself like that,” he mutters. Deacon’s not sure he’s meant to hear it.

“Yeah, sure. Who would ever be vulnerable and honest with friends when they need help, am I right? What an idiot,” Deacon says acidly. MacCready’s eyes snap to him, and he opens his mouth to argue. Deacon folds his arms and waits.

But nothing comes. MacCready stares at him for a moment, tense and angry, and then he scoffs and looks away. He steps over the dirt and back into the road without a word, trailing after Anthony. Deacon watches him go, feeling off balance. He’s disappointed. And that’s kind of confusing. He knows who MacCready is. He’s known all along. A few moments of decency and some laughs don’t change things like that. 

He should know better. 

\----

They reach the County Crossing Bazaar just as the sun’s dipping low behind them, and most of the stalls that line the road across from the old power plant are rolling down their shutters and locking them. Only the makeshift bar, which is really more of a barbecue pit with picnic tables, remains open, and all the other shopkeepers and farmhands gather under the wooden awning. A couple filing cabinets clearly pilfered from the military base down the street, emptied of their drawers and stacked on their sides, serve as the closest thing to an actual bar counter.

Deacon had heard a couple of rumors about the Bazaar, months ago. At the time, it sounded like another pipe dream settlement: a bunch of merchants pooling their resources to build some kind of ill-considered open market that would get them all shot and looted inside of a month. He hadn’t made it far enough north to see the stalls had been built into the defense walls around the farm, and the stall shutters created a nearly seamless barrier when closed. And it was under the multi-turret, several-shifts-worth-of-guards protection of the Minutemen. He wonders what Bunker Hill thinks of the place.

For his part, Deacon can’t remember the last time he let himself sit alone by a campfire, out in the open. But the power plant has the only sight line over the wall, and anyone that comes near _that_ is going to get fried by the radiation still clinging to the building’s core. It’s strangely kind of peaceful, sitting like this, with the background hum of the radio and tipsy laughter and quiet conversation. So he perches himself on a log, abandoning Anthony to the bar and MacCready to god knows where, and pulls Deliverer apart piece by piece in his lap. He pulls out a rag, and lets his head fill with Bing Crosby and the snap of twigs in the fire.

He gets about ten solid minutes of calm before MacCready drops down next to him, only a foot of space left between them on the ground. Deacon looks up, hand pausing midway through wiping down the gun’s barrel. MacCready lights a cigarette and rests his elbow on one upturned knee. He keeps his eyes on the fire.

He’d barely spoken for the rest of the day, outside of their pitstop at Daisy’s. Deacon kept waiting for an argument that never came, and it still doesn’t come now--all he gets is the same tense silence that had followed them all the way here. MacCready just takes a long drag from the cigarette, and then another, letting smoke spiral into the darkness. 

Deacon’s close to just picking the damn fight himself when MacCready finally says, “Why did you join the Railroad?”

Deacon goes rigid, looking quickly around them. It’s late enough now that most of the settlers have drifted into the pair of farmhouses on one side of the settlement, and the few that linger cling to the bar, well behind them and out of earshot. Deacon slumps a little with relief, then glares at MacCready from under his sunglasses. “Jesus, dude, you can’t just bust that out where anyone can hear.”

MacCready rolls his eyes, but lowers his voice. “All right, all right. Just answer the question.”

“Where is this coming from?” Deacon asks warily.

MacCready lets out an exasperated breath, smoke curling into the air from his nostrils. He shifts to angle his body away from Deacon, and draws the cigarette back to his lips. “I’m not stupid, Deacon. You were trying to block my shot when we ran into that...synth.” He says the last word softly. “Never mind that I could’ve shot him right over your ear if that’s all the space I had to work with, you were going to take the bullet if you could.”

Deacon looks at him for a moment, then picks up the silencer in his lap and runs the rag over it. “I was trying to keep you from shooting at all, on the off chance you’ve stopped wanting to use my face as target practice. Or I was hoping to get ridiculously, stupidly lucky and beat your superhero reflexes to shoot first. But if it had come down to it…”

“Why?”

Deacon raises an eyebrow. He sets the silencer down. “Why would I try to keep you from killing an innocent man? Are you seriously asking me that right now?”

He can see just enough of MacCready’s head to see his jaw tighten. “Why would you take a bullet for a synth? One you don’t even know, no less.”

“It’s the same question, that’s what you’re not getting,” Deacon says. “It shouldn’t matter what he is.”

“But it does.” 

Deacon tosses the rag to his feet and leans forward. “If you hadn’t walked in on that argument, if you’d just seen Jules walking down the road, would you have known he was a synth? No seriously, this is definitely intel I need.” 

MacCready shifts his shoulders, frowning at the flames as one of the logs pops and sparks in front of him. He takes a drag, and a moment passes before he grumbles, “Fine. I wouldn’t have known. Happy? That just makes it creepier.”

“Why the fuck does that make it creepy? He was a guy just trying to get a fresh start. The only thing he did wrong was trust people that he had no way of knowing didn’t deserve it.” He raises his chin. “All right, your turn. Why would you shoot him just for being what he is?”

“Because he might have been one of the ones they send to replace people. Or one of the ones they send to kill people. Even you can’t deny that shi—that stuff happens all the time.”

“Sure. And sometimes, people that look like settlers are spies for the Gunners, or the raiders, or they’re fucking serial killers. Sometimes people that’ll share a beer with you one minute will shank you and steal your caps the next,” Deacon says. 

MacCready makes a frustrated noise and stubs out his cigarette in the dirt. “That’s different. It’s more complicated than that.”

“Why? Because they’re made and not born? So are ghouls,” Deacon says.

“That’s not--”

“It is. It is functionally the same. Synths didn’t ask to exist any more than ghouls asked to take a radiation bath. Gen-3s are flesh and blood, man. They’re flesh and fucking blood, the same as everyone else. Some of them are Coursers and killing machines and some of them are just normal people. Some humans are raiders, and some are farmers. It’s the same fucking thing.” 

For a long moment, MacCready just stares at him, frowning. He stays quiet, and then his eyes finally drift back to the fire. “You didn’t answer my question.” 

“I just did.”

“No, why did _you_ join the—join up?”

Deacon hesitates. It’s never been an easy question to answer, the few times he’s been asked. He knows why, but he doesn’t let himself look too closely at it. It’s easy enough to rattle off the surface reasons, the “good cause” and the “people in need” and the “right thing to do.” They’re the reasons he stays. But they’re not the reasons he joined. He’s never lied to himself about that, even if he tries not to think about it, but he’s sure as shit lied to everyone else about it. 

He joined to balance the scales. He joined to outweigh the person he was with the person he wanted to be, the person he should’ve been. Trying to answer every cry for help to make up for the ones he didn’t, and the ones he couldn’t, and the ones he wouldn’t.

He considers lying, making up a story. It’s what he usually does. But there’s something in the way MacCready asks, in the way he crossed the whole damn settlement just to ask, when he’d been ready to shoot a synth in the head right in front of Deacon, in spite of Deacon, just a few hours ago. 

“Same reason Anthony does all the shit he does, probably,” is what he finally settles on. And he realizes as he says it that he’s starting to think it’s true. “Somebody needs to stand up for people that can’t stand up for themselves. And you’ll be shocked to hear that synths are at the bottom of the list of needy people anyone’s willing to help.” He drops his eyes, looking at the gun parts in his lap. “The whole fucking Commonwealth wants to destroy them for it, or ship them back into slavery.” 

MacCready pulls out another cigarette but doesn’t light it. He turns it in circles through his fingers. “So, what, you’re just... really into lost causes?” 

“I’m still arguing with you right now, so I guess I must be,” Deacon says. The corner of MacCready’s mouth twitches, a thin ghost of a smile, there and gone.

MacCready keeps rolling the cigarette around in his hands. “I’d never met one. A synth. Before today. That I know of.” His eyes dart up. “And don’t try to pull the ‘I’ve been one all along’ crap—” 

“You literally cannot prove that I’m not.” 

MacCready sets his jaw. “Fine. Are you?”

Deacon smirks. “Think I’ll wait until the betting pool at HQ gets higher before I answer that one. When I need some beer money.” 

MacCready shakes his head in annoyance. “You are such a dick sometimes.”

“Pot, kettle, black,” Deacon says. 

“Yeah, yeah.” MacCready finally slips the cigarette between his lips and lights it. “Still seems like an easy answer.” 

“Well, it’s the one you’re getting,” Deacon says. “I don’t know what else you want to hear if ‘yes they are people and people don’t deserve to be enslaved by psychopaths, and yes I can and will do something about it’ isn’t good enough for you.”

He begins reassembling Deliverer. MacCready doesn’t answer, just keeps puffing on the cigarette and watching the flames as they begin to burn low. When Deacon mutters something about it being late, MacCready reaches back and puts another log onto the fire, barely sparing Deacon a nod. Deacon leaves him there, unable to shake the feeling that something’s shifted. He’s not sure which direction. He’s not sure what it means. 

\----

By the time they reach the outskirts of Revere, they’ve found their rhythm again, like it was never gone. Like they hadn’t dropped it like a glass bowl on the road outside Starlight. 

They don’t talk about the night before. Deacon had been sleeping for a few hours when the soft sounds of boots on the farmhouse hardwood startled him awake. He’d heard the rustle of a bedroll spreading out near him in the little room all three of them were sharing, and caught the scent of cigarettes and wood smoke. He’s not actually sure MacCready slept much at all, but he seemed strangely lighter when he dropped into the seat next to Anthony at breakfast and teased him for picking at his razorgrain porridge with distaste. (MacCready ate two bowls.) Late into the morning, they’re on the road again, and Anthony’s telling horror stories about Old World cooking MacCready refuses to believe are true. Deacon teases MacCready about his boxed meal collection, and MacCready snipes at him for being a snob. It feels comfortable, in a way that Deacon really thinks should be _un_comfortable. It isn’t.

The airport isn’t far—a short walk south—and though the breeze stinks of rotting fish and salt water, it does cut the heat. They see the shadow of the blimp between the buildings long before they reach it. It sits in the sky like a storm cloud, heavy and monolithic, even at a distance. It’s as oppressive and ostentatious and obvious as everything else about the Brotherhood. They’d broken into the Commonwealth and claimed a piece of it with all the subtlety and finesse of a supermutant beating a deathclaw’s head in with a piece of rebar. And now they’re squatting in the sky like they own it just because no one else has a way of chasing them out of it. 

“I don’t understand how they keep that thing in the air,” MacCready says, frowning up at the blimp in the distance.

“Same way they do everything else: a lot of hot air and hypocrisy,” Deacon mutters. He finds himself smiling when that gets a sharp laugh from MacCready.

“You guys better put a lid on it when we get close,” Anthony says. He’s trailing behind them a little, and Deacon’s almost positive he’s dragging his feet on purpose, if the look he’s giving the sky is anything to go by.

“Actually,” MacCready says, “I thought this might be a good chance to check on Nordhagen. I haven’t gotten a decent look at the turrets since we--”

“You absolute traitor,” Anthony says, narrowing his eyes at MacCready, who breaks into a grin and doesn’t bother finishing his excuse. 

Anthony stares him down for a moment. “Fine. It’ll just be me and Deacon and a blimp full of--”

“And your best friend, what’s-his-name. Paddling Duck or something,” MacCready says.

“Paladin Danse,” Anthony says, putting annoyed emphasis on every syllable.

“Yeah, him.” MacCready says. His shoulders start shaking a little with held-in laughter as he glances over at Deacon. “You’ll love him. Last time he tagged along with us I watched him bum rush a bloatfly screaming ‘For the Brotherhood!’”

Anthony rubs his temples as Deacon and MacCready burst out laughing. “Okay so he’s a little over zealous, but once we get up there—“

“_Up_ there?” Deacon repeats, sobering immediately. “Wait, are we actually going _in_ the giant floating death trap?” Deacon stops walking.

“Well, yeah, you said you wanted to--”

“I thought they were in the airport,” Deacon says, frowning.

“They are, but the bulk of it is in the blimp.”

“So we’re...riding a really super tall elevator?”

“No, they’ll fly us up in the vertibird.”

Deacon raises his eyebrows. “We have to fly up there. All the way up there. A million feet off the ground, to the blimp the size of a small country, in some kind of tin can with wings.”

“I mean it’s not a tin can—”

“Yeah, you know, that sounds really, really great? It’s just that MacCready told me he wants my help with those turrets, and you know how he gets when he doesn’t get his way,” Deacon says, miming a gun with his fingers and pretending to shoot.

MacCready folds his arms across his chest. “Hey, now, he’s the boss, and if he says jump off the giant floating death trap, you say—”

“Right, but remember I was telling you about my hidden talent for turret inspection? How I’m just, like, so insanely good at looking at turrets? While I’m standing on good old terra firma? And you were all ‘There’s no way you’re that good, you better prove it.’”

“I do _not_ sound like that.”

“I cannot believe this. Betrayed, by two of my best men, and left to the wolves,” Anthony grumbles, but the corners of his mouth are twitching up. “When I said you make a good team, I meant you should stop almost killing each other, not band together and mutiny. And anyway, I thought you wanted a closer look at how they operate, Deacon.”

“I’m looking, a whole lot closer. Definitely a blimp. Definitely full of POS—I mean BOS soldiers.” He swipes his palms together as though clearing them of dust. “Whew, man, job done. I almost broke a sweat.”

“I’m telling Dez you weaseled out of this golden opportunity for intel—”

A sound cuts into their argument, something like the crackle of a microphone. Then a voice, unintelligible but loud, echoing off the buildings around them. It rises and falls and rises again, before going quiet. 

“Was that the Brotherhood?” Deacon looks around.

“I think it’s that—that race track I keep seeing flyers for. It’s supposed to be somewhere around here,” MacCready says. “Raider thing, I think. Racing robots.”

Deacon’s head whips around. “What, seriously?”

“Yeah,” MacCready says, and then there’s a sudden glint in his eye. “Sounds like something the Railroad might want to look into, you know. In case the robots need liberating from their raider overlords or something.”

“Shit, Bullseye, that sounds serious,” Deacon deadpans. “I have to check it out. You know how it is.”

“Traitors. Vicious, flagrant traitors. You’d actually willingly spend time together over helping me,” Anthony says. “If you get shot to pieces on your robot race track date, you just remember that it’s fucking karma.”

“Bring me back a souvenir helmet,” Deacon grins, nudging MacCready toward the side street. ”Ooh, or if you can score me one of those stupid body suits, that would be _gold_.”

“You come and get it yourself or you can go to hell,” Anthony says, and Deacon blows him a kiss. “Ugh. I don’t know how long this is going to take, but I’ll meet you in Nordhagen by the evening. You fucking assholes.” 

Deacon straightens and throws him a salute, which makes MacCready roll his eyes and shove him forward down the street. 

\----

Nordhagen is not one of the Minutemen’s more impressive settlements. They head there first, picking their way across a long bridge, the blimp looming over them in the distance. A modest wooden fishmonger’s stall greets them on the edge of the road, installed into the guard wall like the Bazaar stalls. Well, the smell of it greets them long before the sight does. Turrets sit on either corner of the roof. How welcoming.

Deacon sees some limp, scrawny vegetables laid out on a table in one corner, across from a bored old man with tanned, leathery skin. The rest is fish, some laying in bins of dirty salt and some hanging from hooks, dripping onto the floor. Deacon tries to keep his grimaces discreet, but the old man hardly even bothers to lift his chin from his palm as they pass by and through the gate.

The guard wall continues along the southeast side of the settlement, cutting into the sand and leaning a little inward. Deacon wonders how stable it is, and finds MacCready already frowning at it when he looks over. The rest is open to the beach, which feels a little strange after seeing so many heavily guarded, bulletproof, barricaded bases dotting the Commonwealth. But then, the Brotherhood occupies the whole shoreline across the water to the west, and the houses to the north would have sight lines over the wall anyway. Probably hardly worth the resources to try until they can keep the wall solidly upright. The beach is dotted with little weathered shacks held aloft over the sand with wooden beams. There’s a ruddy garden to one side, and down the slope of the dunes he can see a patched up boat rocking against the shore. 

Well, they can’t all be sprawling forts and fledgling cities. Honestly, when the handful of settlers they meet do little more than nod to MacCready and give Deacon a disinterested glance, Deacon finds himself oddly put at ease. So Anthony’s human after all, and parts of his empire still need a little spit shine and elbow grease. 

They’re shown to one of the unclaimed houses, little more than a wooden box with a couple straw mattresses tossed on the floor and a pair of chairs in the corner. It’ll do. Deacon sets his pack down and immediately begins rifling through it until his hand lands on a leather jacket. He plucks piece after piece free until an ensemble lays in a rumpled pile on the mattress. He pulls off his sunglasses.

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees MacCready watching him from near the other bed. “What are you—oh, wow, okay.” He falters as Deacon yanks off the button-down he’d been wearing without bothering with the buttons, leaving him bare-chested. 

“Recon,” Deacon says, reaching for a tighter, dark red t-shirt. “You know. Might be important intel at that track.”

“You’re not actually going to—Deacon, if they see you—”

“Have you met me? They’re not going to see me,” Deacon says, glancing at MacCready once he pulls the t-shirt down over his stomach. MacCready’s very pointedly looking at the floor. “I’m an expert at not being seen. It’s kind of a thing. Kind of the _whole_ thing.” Deacon begins unbuckling his belt. “But if this happens to be one of the days my luck runs out, at least they’re not going to look at me and think ‘easy pickings’ if I’m dressed like this.” He drops his khakis to the floor and steps out of them.

“Geez, I guess no one can say you aren’t dedicated,” MacCready mumbles, turning away. As Deacon tugs the leather pants up over his knees, he hears rustling, and then the light clink of bullets. He glances back as he zips up and sees MacCready loading his sniper rifle and cocking it. 

“What, am I going to have to strongarm my way out of here?” Deacon raises an eyebrow. “I’m a big boy, I’ll be fine.”

MacCready turns around, looking confused, and then his expression goes blank. His eyes slide over Deacon’s calves, and his thighs, before snapping back up to his face. Deacon still hasn’t put the sunglasses back on, and MacCready’s eyes catch his. 

Huh. Deacon sort of figured MacCready didn’t completely hate him anymore, but he wasn’t expecting to catch him _staring_. Well. Wasn’t like Deacon’s eyes hadn’t wandered places he didn’t mean for them to before, on people he didn’t actually want anything to do with. They just had to go wearing that shirt with that pair of pants, the bastards. It’s just a little amusing to _be_ that bastard, for once.

“See something you like?” Deacon says, with a smirk. 

“You look completely ridiculous in that,” MacCready says quickly as he turns away to sling the rifle over his back. Deacon just watches him, smirk never leaving. “There’s no way you’re blending in.”

“Every raider in the fucking Commonwealth looks like this,” Deacon says, leaning over to pick up the jacket. “If they even see me. Which they won’t.” 

MacCready rolls his eyes. “Fine, let’s go.”

“Wait, you’re coming?”

“Of course I’m coming,” MacCready says, looking at Deacon like it was the stupidest possible question he could’ve asked. “Anthony will kill me if you get hurt because I wasn’t watching your back. And we both know I’m the better shot.” 

Deacon slips his shades back on. “That’s comparing tatoes and mutfruit. You just want to see the robots.” 

“Well I’m not in it for the company, that’s for sure,” MacCready says, but he’s having trouble keeping the corners of his mouth from twitching up, just a little.

Deacon tosses the leather jacket at him, which MacCready catches on reflex. The almost-smile immediately disappears as MacCready glares at him. “Oh no. I am not hauling your shi—your crap. That’s not part of the deal.”

“No, you idiot, get that stupid duster off and put it on. At least try to look like you didn’t just come from a Gunner patrol,” Deacon says. 

“I _like_ this duster. And I do not look—”

“Yes, you do. I clocked you for an ex-Gunner the first time I laid eyes on you, man. Put on the jacket,” Deacon says, folding his arms. 

“Not like it’s going to matter if I’m in the middle of blowing their heads off,” MacCready grumbles, but he slings the rifle strap over his head and reaches for the coat’s buttons. 

So he _does_ hide chest armor under that getup, and two pistol holsters, that Deacon can see. He seems surprisingly thin without the bulk of the coat around him. Even the leather jacket hangs loose around his chest. Deacon watches him rearrange his scarf and then zip up the leather. Not a bad look, actually. The jacket ends right at his waist, which Deacon’s never actually gotten a decent look at before. 

“See something _you_ like?”

Shit. _Right, what was that about wandering eyes, Deacon?_ At least MacCready can’t actually see where Deacon’s eyes are under the shades. Deacon just grins at him. “I’ve never seen you in two sleeves.”

“Oh fu—screw off,” MacCready says, turning to snatch the rifle back up.

“No, really, it’s a good look,” Deacon says. 

“I know where you sleep,” says MacCready. “Now shut up and explain to me how we’re doing this extremely stupid thing we’re doing.” 

\----

“Just pull yourself up!”

“I’m trying!”

“Try harder.”

“Not all of us have time for leg day—”

“This was _your_ idea.”

“There was a lot less shrill bitching when I imagined it.”

“Just pull yourself up, old man.”

“Make no mistake—_agh_—you will pay for that comment—oh son of a—”

“Shut up before they hear you!”

Deacon grunts, practically throwing himself over the ledge and landing on his stomach, legs flailing a little over the roof edge. He’d spotted the old brick building as they picked their way over the shore to Nordhagen, and thought it would be the perfect perch. God only knows what it was before; some kind of store or restaurant, maybe. There’s a picture of a fish skeleton on the awning out front, and only faded chunks of letters beneath, impossible to read. Old World people found the weirdest shit charming.

He’d really noticed the building for the piping climbing up the side. Rusted? Definitely. Unstable? Probably. But it would be easy enough to climb up using the metal fittings as footholds. The roof would have a decent view of the track across the street, but it sat far enough back not to draw immediate attention. With all eyes on the robots, Deacon was willing to bet no one would be looking up anyway.

And it had all worked, it was just—Deacon wasn’t exactly as spry as he used to be. Unlike fucking MacCready the pipe-climbing monkey. (Deacon assumes this is an apt comparison based on a movie he used to watch as a kid about a boy with a pet monkey. Shame those were one of the animals that didn’t make it. Then again, Deacon doesn’t want to picture what horrors radiation might wreak on a creature like that.) Deacon rolls onto his back, catching his breath, and wincing a little as the heated black material of the roof stings his skin through his t-shirt.

“Oh yeah, here we go,” MacCready says quietly somewhere over Deacon’s head. Deacon cranes his neck and sees MacCready sitting near the front edge of the roof, the binoculars that usually hang from his belt in his hands.

Deacon pushes himself up, shuffling over to sit beside him. He pulls the scope he’d loosened from his own sniper rifle out of his back pocket.

The track seems surprisingly intact. The middle is cluttered with a ramshackle bunch of half-finished shacks, but the track itself and the stands beyond seem to have survived more or less unscathed, aside from the usual piles of trash and dirt scattered around. The announcer’s voice barrels through a speaker he can’t see, loud enough to make both of them grimace. 

“What a race, what a _race_! Ol’ Rusty’s as steady as ever, let’s give him a hand, huh?” 

Deacon pushes his sunglasses to rest on the crown of his head, and watches through the scope as an eyebot zooms across the finish line. An assaultron follows closely behind, and then a line of several Mr. Handys. Some distant cheering echoes across the street.

“Coming up next, Lady Lovelace and Iron Maiden in a head-to-head match! You don’t want to miss this!” 

Two assaultrons take the track at the starting line after a few moments of the other bots gliding back into a run down building to one side of the track. The assaultrons’ names are painted crudely across their back panels, and one has pink paint splashed over its head.

Deacon leans toward MacCready. “I got 10 caps says Iron Maiden wins.” 

MacCready looks away from his binoculars and seems to falter for a second when he looks at Deacon’s face, bare of the shades. Deacon pats at his own jaw, brows knitting. “What, did I get rust on my face?”

“What?” MacCready says, then blinks a few times. “No, not—no. You just look really different when you take those off. It’s—uh, weird.” He waves a couple fingers at the sunglasses. 

“Yeah, yeah, botched the last face change, blah blah, never heard that joke before. Quit stalling, 10 caps isn’t _that_ much,” Deacon looks back through the scope to see the assaultrons leaning down, each with one leg bent forward.

“Yeah all right, I’ll take that bet,” MacCready says. 

There’s the sound of a gunshot, and Deacon tenses for a moment before he realizes it’s the signal for the race to start. The assaultrons launch themselves forward, sprinting over the sand, Iron Maiden in the lead. They rumble around the curve, neck and neck, before bounding out of Deacon’s sight line behind the overgrown brush in front of the track’s fence. 

“Look at ‘em go!” the announcer cries. 

It takes several seconds for them to round the second curve and come back into view, still nearly on top of one another. Then Lady Lovelace, the assaultron with the pink on its face plate, suddenly gains speed, stepping out ahead seconds before it crosses the finish line. 

“Shit!” Deacon hisses, as MacCready lets out a muffled whoop and pumps his fist.

“Heck yeah,” he whispers, and holds out his palm toward Deacon with a smirk.

Deacon fishes in the pouch strapped to his waist, and drops the caps into MacCready’s hand with a scoff. MacCready closes his palm with a smug grin and drops the caps into his jacket pocket. The announcer yells something about a fifteen minute break for maintenance, and Deacon and MacCready both shuffle further back from the edge as a few raiders wander closer to the fence and light up cigarettes.

“So, I’m curious,” Deacon says after a moment, sliding his sunglasses back into place.

MacCready folds his arms, giving Deacon a sidelong look. “Here we go.” 

“Why were _you_ so eager to get out of Brotherhood duty?” Deacon says. He leans back a little. “Aren’t they, like, the heroes of the Capital Wasteland?”

MacCready’s mouth twists a little. “I mean, depends on who you’re asking, I guess. They ousted the last power-hungry bunch of lunatics in charge, and things were a little better. As far as heroes, though… that one Vault Dweller got the whole place clean water. Think she ranks higher up the list.”

“She worked with them, though, didn’t she?” Deacon says. “Kinda fuzzy on the details, but—”

“I’m surprised you know much about it at all.” MacCready pauses, and quirks his lips. “Right, almost forgot, assume you know things.”

Deacon shrugs one shoulder. He sets the scope to the side and stretches his legs out in front of him. “I mean, that was pretty big news, even up here. And I was kicking around down there not long after it went down.” 

MacCready looks up in surprise. “You were in the Capital?”

“Not long,” Deacon says. “Had an op that went literally south. That was all anyone down there talked about.” He tilts his head a little in thought. “Man, what is it with Vaulties burrowing up out of nowhere to save the world?”

MacCready snorts. “Search me. I’m not gonna question a good thing.” He looks back out over the track. “I met her once, you know.”

“Our Lady of Perpetual Hydration?”

MacCready chuckles. “That’s the one. I forget her name. She stumbled into Little Lamplight when I was—uh.” He hesitates, eyes flicking over to Deacon and then away.

“What’s Little Lamplight?” Deacon asks.

“That’s the—y’know, the cave. I grew up in. We called it Little Lamplight. Well I mean, someone did. I don’t know who started it.” 

“I—probably should’ve guessed that,” Deacon says, shaking his head. “So, she came when you were...what? Living there?”

MacCready closes his eyes, his expression pinched. “Just so we’re clear: if you laugh loud enough to alert the raiders, I _will_ shoot you.” 

“I mean that’ll attract them more than me laughing, but why would I—”

“I was the mayor.”

It takes a considerable amount of muscle control and sheer fucking will power to swallow down the bark of laughter in his throat. He should get a medal for this kind of effort. Jesus. He stares at MacCready, eyes nearly watering under his sunglasses, feeling like he was just handed a hundred caps and a bottle of whiskey. MacCready takes one look at him, sunglasses or no, and sighs, leaning his head back in resignation.

“I’m sorry,” Deacon says, voice strained with the effort of sounding even and completely failing, “I’m going to need you to repeat that for me.” 

“I knew you’d be like this.”

“No, seriously, I’m not sure I heard you right.”

“You are such a dick.”

Deacon shifts around to face him properly, leaning his elbows on his knees. He rests his chin in his hands. “What was your platform, Mayor MacCready? Did you have a slogan? Please tell me you had a slogan.”

“I hate you.”

“I know. Come on, what gets a...ten-year-old? Nine? Whatever-year-old elected mayor of Kid City?”

“Ten. When I started,” MacCready says. He sighs again, straightening and adjusting the brim of his hat lower. “We...had this girl, Princess. She tried to just, uh, declare herself mayor. And then change the title of ‘mayor’ to ‘princess.’” He scrunches his mouth. An expression flits over what Deacon can see of his face under the hat, something caught between embarrassed and self-consciously amused. Not really a look he’s seen on MacCready before and it’s… disarming. 

MacCready finally continues, “So, I, uh—I decked her. Hit her right in the face. I told her we needed someone that was going to look out for us, not rule over us. And that pretty much clinched it for everyone else, so, Princess was out, five minutes into her reign, and I was mayor until I left. Did a pretty da—uh, dang good job, too.” 

Deacon has been staring at MacCready wordlessly, completely delighted. “I am never going to come up with a better origin story than that.”

“Hey, it’s the truth,” MacCready frowns.

“That’s why it’s so great,” Deacon says, sitting up a little. “Baby Bobby, champion of democracy. Sic semper tyrannis, _bitch_!” He punches one hand into his other palm. 

MacCready rolls his eyes. “I have no idea what the fu—heck that means, but keep it down. And stop calling me that.”

“Your childhood is the gift that keeps on giving,” Deacon says, smirking. “You’ve just become the second most interesting person I’ve ever met.”

“Tough to beat frozen solid for two hundred years,” MacCready says, with a small answering smile.

“Oh no, Anthony’s like… tenth on the list. Most interesting was this guy Carl, one man traveling circus, used to juggle cans of Cram while balancing a Nuka Cola on his head and reciting poetry for caps. Made pretty good bank doing it, too,” Deacon says. 

MacCready shakes his head. “And here I—kinda thought you hated me.” 

Deacon’s smile falters. “I, um—I did. At first.”

MacCready turns his head. “And now?”

Deacon lowers his eyes, picking at a loose thread on the hem of his shirt. He bites the inside of his cheek, considering. He’s not sure why the question makes him feel so off-balance, or why the answer feels like it has more weight than it should. He lands on: “I’ve had worse roommates.” 

MacCready keeps looking at him for a moment, then gives him another small smile. “Yeah, me too.”

“Place your bets, folks! Next race is about to start!” the speaker blares, making both of them turn to look back at the track. Deacon fumbles for his scope as MacCready raises his binoculars, and they watch the line of Mr. Handys from earlier gliding onto the starting line. 

“10 caps on the Piece o’ Junk,” MacCready says. 

“You’re going to have to be more specific.”

“That’s the name, idiot, it’s painted on the side.”

“Right you are, Mr. Mayor,” Deacon says, and MacCready groans next to him.

“You are never going to let this go, are you?” he sighs.

“Not for one second,” Deacon says. A gunshot sounds, and the robots blast forward.

And as he smiles, laughing a little at MacCready’s grumbling, it occurs to Deacon that he didn’t think to lie. The one instinct that never fails him. It didn’t occur to him to say _yes, you’re right, I do hate you_, easily as he says every other bit of bullshit he says. And all right, it’s easier to work together and share a stupid house if they can sort of stand each other. But that lying about it, keeping MacCready at a clear and safe distance, didn’t even cross his mind—worse, actually, that _I don’t like you_ would have been the lie. 

When did that happen?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We did it guys we made it to the first hints of flirting and maybe also friendship?? Deacon's about to have a giant existential crisis but we'll get there.
> 
> 1) Forgive me for always shamelessly shunting in my actual in-game settlements but I had a lot of fun with my County Crossing, and I actually did make the whole border of it roadside stalls. Not sure how practical it really is in practice, but it looked cool.
> 
> 2) I imagine Anthony talking about Old World '50s-era cooking to them including descriptions of tuna fish casseroles and "Things We Used to Suspend in Jello (Side Note: I'll Attempt to Explain What Jello Is)"
> 
> 3) My headcanon is that Deacon is one of those people’s that has no qualms about just shedding his clothes in front of people and doesn’t get why anyone else has a problem.
> 
> 4) Took some liberties with the race track robots because I feel like it’d be more fun if they looked distinctive.
> 
> ETA: Forgot to add that Chapter 7 is (finally) finished and will go up once I have a draft for Chapter 8. This chapter was originally planned to be much longer but it was going to be a monster, so the second half is getting its own chapter. As it stands, this is shaping up to be somewhere around 16 chapters, but I don’t want to add an official count yet as things keep evolving.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two steps forward, one step back. While the boys take Nahant, Deacon has an existential crisis. It only gets more complicated from there.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all from the bottom of my heart for your encouraging comments and also for your patience. I was determined to get this chapter posted before Thanksgiving, and I’m down to the wire but I made it! I hope it’s worth the wait.
> 
> A million thanks to **serenityfails** for their eternal patience with my fretting and tweaking.

The problem is…

The _problem_ is…

A bullet cracks the brick a foot to Deacon’s right. He drops low, braces his shoulder against the jagged remains of the second floor wall, and reloads. 

He’s losing perspective. That’s the problem.

MacCready shuffles behind him, and he hears the rifle blast out of the shell of an old window. There’s a sickening splash on the pavement below them. Deacon doesn’t look.

It’s the stillness. The figurative stillness, that is, because—he stretches up and fires, ducking back down when an answering shot sails over his head—it’s not exactly like Anthony’s keeping him idle. But he’s never run an op like this, one that just stretches and stretches through endless ellipses to end on a question mark. And it does something to you, that kind of staying in one place (again, so metaphorically, his feet are fucking _killing_ him, thank you). It does something to you when you spend weeks waiting for a knife in the back that doesn’t come. Makes you think weird things like _this isn’t so bad_ and _shit, we really do make a good team_ and _I think I kinda like these guys_.

And then you lose perspective.

Pieces of brick scatter over the floor with another crack. Deacon darts a glance across the gaping hole in the police station’s front wall from where he and MacCready are holed up. Anthony’s rapidly sliding bullets back into his combat rifle, shoulders pressed to the part of the wall that isn’t half rubble. (Nahant had welcomed them with open arms--raider arms, holding guns, because what else had they expected, really? They’ll be lucky if they don’t get the rest of Libertalia barreling up the docks on top of them any minute now.)

“You know,” Deacon calls across the space to Anthony as MacCready fires behind him again, “before I met you, Bullseye, I used to go whole days without massacring a bunch of things. Honest!” He chances a look over the wall, and launches a shot at a raider stupid enough to try crossing the dead space between the police station and the warehouse across the street. The tire iron in his hand clatters to the ground, blood bursting from his side. 

Anthony’s laugh is breathless but genuine. “Your life must have been so boring.”

“Total snoozefest,” Deacon says, slipping back down. The brick is cool against his cheek. 

The problem is you don’t _do_ friends in this business. That’s like holding a live grenade in your hands, pulling the pin, and expecting it not to explode. It’s the times you don’t die in a rain of blood and limbs and organ bits that are the anomalies. That’s the kind of stupid, impossible luck you do not and will not have twice. You don’t hope for it, you don’t gamble on it, and you sure as shit don’t rely on it.

So the problem is, if it does happen, it makes you feel like you hit the jackpot. You get the one, perfect, singing hit of Jet that sends you soaring higher than you’ve ever been. And then it hurts twice as hard to come careening back down to earth later, like you always, inevitably, absolutely will. 

Deacon doesn’t do chems anymore, and he doesn’t do friends either.

Anthony leans out and shoots off a few rounds, then slumps back with a growl. “That stupid bastard behind the shed! I can’t get him!”

“Let me—”

“On it,” Deacon says, before MacCready can finish. He slings his sniper rifle strap off his shoulder to the floor and reaches back. His fingers slip into a side pocket on his pack and find purchase on the switch of a Stealth Boy. He flips it.

Invisible, he turns toward the desks behind them to find the stairs, pulling out Deliverer as he goes. He catches sight of MacCready’s face as he moves past; there’s a pinched look that might be annoyance, but misses the mark, as his eyes dart back and forth over the floor where Deacon had been crouching. Then he sighs, and turns back to the frame of the window, lifting his rifle again. 

Yeah, Deacon learned a long time ago to travel alone. Even partnering up with a colleague is just a liability in the end. It attracts more attention, requires a lot of compromising, turns into a lot of arguing, and demands a dangerous level of trust. No thanks. Deacon’s rather fond of his limbs being attached and not being sold at a premium to the Institute along with the rest of him, or chopped up and left in a god damn ditch. 

Or worse than that: it goes well, really well, and you get fucking _soft_. You get worried, and distracted, and do something stupid because your priorities have an “out of order” sign slung over them. 

Deacon picks his way silently across the sidewalk, stepping over one of the slumped raiders and around the minefield of blood splatter that would give his footprints away. He slides his feet into the grass and makes a slow path around the side wall of the shed, taking measured breaths through his nose. He lifts Deliverer, curling his finger around the trigger, and waits. Finally, the raider leans around the corner, gun trained up to fire at Anthony again. Deacon puts a bullet right between his eyes. The gun drops, and the raider with it. Deacon glances around behind him, surveying the field, and when he sees nothing but still bodies and abandoned weapons, he stands. 

“Ha!” he calls, switching off the Stealth Boy and turning toward the window MacCready had been perched near. “You see that, Bobby? You don’t have the monopoly on perfect headshots all the—”

A shot rings out, and Deacon hears it whiz past his shoulder. He whips around in time to see a woman in leathers standing just a few feet behind him, holding up a spiked baseball bat that falls limply from her hands. Blood pours from her temple as she collapses. Deacon looks back just as MacCready leans out of the window looking smug as absolute fuck. “What was that, Deacon?” 

Deacon scoffs. “For the record, I looked way cooler doing it while invisible.”

“You’re _welcome_,” MacCready says. He steps back out of sight. Deacon hears Anthony’s laughter from somewhere further in.

The problem is…

The _problem_ is…

...that despite all of that, despite every instinct he’s been honing and hammering in for years, despite every careful inch of distance he’s put between himself and everyone he knows, Deacon _likes_ getting comfortable. It’s kind of nice, having someone watching your back that doesn’t exactly hate doing it. It’s kind of nice, not getting beaten to death by a spike bat. It’s kind of nice, having someone to laugh it off with later. 

Jet used to be nice, too. 

Fuck. 

\----

“All right. I give Croup Manor one star. I give all of Nahant one star. My travel agent is getting a strong-worded letter of complaint.”

“The fu—the heck is a travel agent?”

“Old World people used to pay them to plan out vacations.”

“Sometimes I genuinely can’t tell if you’re making this stuff up.”

“Bullseye, tell MacCready what a travel agent is, please.”

“He’s not making that one up, RJ.”

“Ha! See—oh my god, is that—it is. I have brains on my jeans. There are feral ghoul brains on my fucking jeans. I rescind the star. This place can rot in hell. Oh, fine, laugh until you fucking choke, Bobby. Next time we storm a feral-infested basement, _you’re_ going first. I’ll be behind you. Very, very far behind you.”

“That’s what you get for doing this in sneakers and torn up jeans, _William_.”

“You’re right. I should have foreseen we were going to be tromping around a flooded basement full of ferals because that’s a completely normal thing we do all the time.” 

“I mean, yeah, it kind of is.”

“God damn it, I hate it when you’re right.”

“I know.” 

“Hey, you two, knock it off for a second and help me open this trunk.” 

“If it’s not full of booze and caps, I say we nuke this whole fucking peninsula.” 

\----

Hours later, Deacon lays awake on the wood floor of an old church on the ocean’s edge. The quiet is crawling into his skull, broken only now and again by the sound of the surf against the rocks or a breeze rattling the dead branches of the woods down the street. And Anthony’s light snoring, a few feet away, closer to the staircase that led them up to this weird little sitting room above the pulpit. MacCready had taken first watch, climbing up into the steeple with his rifle in one hand and a pack of cigarettes in the other.

And that left Deacon with too much space to think.

He tries to funnel his racing thoughts somewhere practical, first. Like the safehouse. This place isn’t a _terrible_ spot for it, in the end. Deacon had refused to admit it until he’d changed clothes, had a mediocre meal of seared mirelurk meat and wild carrots, and broken into one of the nine bottles of surprisingly good liquor they found in that basement, but it’s true. He can’t reasonably argue that it doesn’t have a ton of potential. The raiders camped at the entrance are a big old black mark in the negative column, but the positive is that past the wharf, there’s a locked gate cutting off the rest of the peninsula, which holds an entire empty neighborhood that had little more than a handful of ferals and a few mirelurks standing in the way of claiming it. He’s actually kind of surprised the raiders hadn’t squatted here over building a houseboat city, but hey, they’re fucking raiders. No one’s exactly giving them points for intelligence, and Deacon’s not about to complain. 

After clearing out the Manor and the bar and the weird ocean museum, they’d ended up in the church by virtue of the steeple’s view of Libertalia, and the advantage of putting a wide open second floor between them and ambush. They’d sprawled across the sitting room Deacon and Anthony lay in now, and spent the evening drawing up plans for the town using some old paper and a purple marker Anthony had found laying around one of the desks in the museum. (“Motion for those robots to be the first thing that goes,” Deacon had said, which got a Nuka Cola raised in agreement from MacCready and an eye roll from Anthony.) Deacon and MacCready had taken turns volleying ideas back and forth, defenses and building plans and escape routes, and Anthony had doodled and scribbled until his hand cramped. 

It was good. It felt good. It felt god damn comfortable. He almost groans aloud in frustration, rolling onto his side as his thoughts circle back around the point they’ve been circling around all day. Getting comfortable is dangerous. Sitting around a dirty lantern and talking and teasing and dreaming a fucking town into existence together is dangerous. For him. But also for _them_.

And there it is. The part of this argument with himself he hasn’t wanted to look at. So instead of looking at it, he pushes the blanket off his shoulders and feels around for his shoes. He grabs a bottle of rum from their new collection, slings the strap of his rifle over his shoulder, and marches down the open walkway in the next room that leads to the steeple stairs. If this bullshit is going to keep him awake, then someone else ought to get some sleep, at least.

“You’re early,” MacCready says, glancing over as Deacon rounds the staircase. The steeple is open on all four sides, the bell that would’ve hung over the stairs long gone. MacCready’s perched in the opening that faces the sea, rifle across his lap. His elbow rests on one knee, like a few nights ago by the fire. A cigarette burns between his fingers.

“Couldn’t sleep,” Deacon says as he pauses a few stairs from the top, glancing around to take in the view. “It’s too fucking quiet out here.”

MacCready breathes a little laugh. “That’s what Anthony always says.”

Deacon raises his eyebrows, questioning, as he sits down on the stairs. He slides his rifle up onto the floor above him. MacCready shrugs as he says, “Apparently the Old World was a lot noisier. He said there was always some kind of background noise, even at night. Cars on the roads, I guess, or the houses had, like, air circulating through? You’d have to get him to explain it again, I sort of stopped paying attention partway through.”

Deacon snorts. “Yeah, I don’t know about all that, but I’m not used to sleeping anywhere quiet. If it’s quiet at HQ, it’s time to panic.”

MacCready nods, and does a sweep with his eyes over the landscape outside as he draws the cigarette to his lips. Deacon sets about unscrewing the bottle of rum. “Anyway, thought I might as well take over if I wasn’t going to sleep anyway.” He lifts the bottle and takes a swig, then offers it to MacCready.

“Go easy on that stuff if you’re taking watch,” MacCready says, even as he curls his fingers around the bottle.

“Yes, Mom.”

MacCready shakes his head as he swallows, passing the bottle back. “You get us shot at because you can’t see straight, that’s on you.”

Deacon sets the bottle on the top step and leans up on his hands, craning his neck around. “Jesus, this really is high up.”

“Perfect view, honestly. Kinda surprises me no one’s taken it before now, especially the raiders,” MacCready says.

“That’s what I thought. Had to be the welcome party,” Deacon says, nodding back in the direction of the Manor.

MacCready glances back over his shoulder, exhaling smoke as he turns. “I mean, we took them out easy enough.”

“We had two expert snipers and one mediocre guy that gets lucky a lot,” Deacon says.

“Hey, cut Anthony some slack, he was asleep for two centuries.” MacCready looks back at him, a mischievous smile bleeding through after a moment.

“Ooh, I’m gonna tell him you said that,” Deacon laughs. The compliment doesn’t escape him, and he wonders if MacCready meant it to come out that way.

MacCready reaches over and grabs the whiskey bottle, dangling it over the edge. “Then kiss your booze goodbye.”

Deacon straightens. “You wouldn’t dare.”

MacCready loosens his fingers, letting the bottle drop a couple inches before catching it again at the neck. 

“You monster,” Deacon says. “Fine, you win, I won’t reveal what a completely secret and totally unobvious asshole you are.”

MacCready chuckles and puts the bottle back down on the steeple floor. Deacon snatches it, holding it to his chest.

“Don’t worry, baby, I wasn’t going to let him hurt you.”

MacCready just shakes his head, taking a last drag from his cigarette before stubbing it out on the floor. He leans his head back against the post, releasing the smoke through his nose and out into the night. Deacon waits for him to start shifting around to move out of his perch, but he doesn’t seem to be in any hurry to leave. 

After a moment of silence passes, MacCready says, “You ever look around at these old neighborhoods and just...wonder how anyone was ever that comfortable?”

Deacon furrows his brow, halfway through taking another sip from the bottle.

“You know,” MacCready says, looking away to gesture at the torn-up houses below. “No ruined guard tower. You see gate houses in some places but it’s just another building—it’s not fortified, no good sight lines. You don’t find ruins of turrets on the rooftops, unless it’s some military base. They had the threat of war over them all the time but—but they didn’t really seem to act like it might come to their doorsteps.”

Deacon glances at what he can see of the neighborhood from the stairs. “They had police, I guess. Right around the corner, here. But they didn’t have super mutants and ferals and raiders roaming around unchecked, either.”

MacCready rocks his head back and forth, considering. “Just seems impossible, is all. The idea that people were once that...I don’t know. Unafraid?”

“To hear Garvey talk, it’ll be like that again, one day. When the Minutemen save the world, or whatever,” Deacon says, shifting his shoulders against the curved wall.

MacCready scoffs. Deacon looks over at him, a little surprised. “Not on board?”

“It’s...a nice dream,” MacCready says, carefully.

The corners of Deacon’s mouth twitch up. “Why, Bobby, wherever is your faith in the bright Commonwealth future?”

“You gonna tell me you buy into it?” MacCready gives him a skeptical look.

Deacon folds his arms over the top step, leaning forward to rest his chin on them. “Nah. Look what happened the last time people put blind faith in an idea like that.” He lifts a couple fingers off his elbow to twirl them in a vague gesture.

“Now who’s cynical?”

Deacon shrugs a little. “You’re asking a guy who’s spent half his life fighting to free people from an organization with too much power if he believes another organization needs more power.” He sighs. “I like the Minutemen. They’re doing good things. But it always starts there. It started there the last time the Minutemen were a thing. Anthony’s not gonna be General forever. Someone else gets power, power goes to their head, everything goes to shit. Or maybe not. But that’s what happened to the Brotherhood. And the Enclave. Hell, the entire Old World.”

He lifts his chin, glancing up at MacCready. “Doesn’t mean I’m not gonna help them try for the good things. Good for a little while is better than not good at all.”

“You’re the most pessimistic idealist I’ve ever met.” MacCready reaches for the rum.

“I told you, I’m like a present. So many layers to unwrap.” He smirks. Then he pauses, looking down at where his fingers are idly tracing the grain of the wood floor. “So what made you jump on board the Minutemen freight train, if you’re not in it for the idealism? Was it just the caps? Steady job?”

MacCready’s head moves off the post, looking at Deacon a little sharply for a moment. He squints, and Deacon figures he’s trying to sort out if there’s judgment under the words. There isn’t. Deacon finds himself genuinely curious. He feels the anxiety of earlier pricking at the back of his neck, the whisper of _too close, too close_, but he’s already asked it. He pulls the rum to him the second MacCready sets it down.

Whatever MacCready sees finally seems to satisfy him, and he leans his head back again. He reaches into his pocket, fumbling for another cigarette. He cups his hand around a match and lights it. He takes the space of a long inhale to answer.

“Anthony hired me to help them retake the Castle,” he says, eyes drifting to look at the view over Deacon’s head. “And yeah, at the time it seemed like—a decent job, not a terrible boss, uncomplicated caps. Couldn’t be bad to be on the Minutemen’s good side if it all worked out, maybe have them owing me a favor. Maybe more jobs down the line. And that’s sort of how it worked out, but...”

“But?” Deacon prompts.

MacCready huffs out a small, self-conscious breath of a laugh. “I walked into it expecting a job. Didn’t really expect to end up with a friend.”

Oh.

_You had to ask. Didn’t Old World people have a saying about curiosity and cats?_ Deacon disguises the way he stiffens as shifting to get more comfortable. He takes a heavy drink from the bottle. “Anthony seems to have that effect on people,” he says, when he trusts the strain not to leak into his voice. MacCready chuckles.

Deacon can put some of the pieces together from there. Winlock and Barnes going down had been big enough news among the Gunners to get filtered through the rumor mill at the Third Rail. The beef between them all was well known, so most people had suspected MacCready, and Deacon had known MacCready was traveling with the Vault Dweller. Not hard to make the connection. He had assumed it was an even trade, help for help. Now the look on MacCready’s face the first time he met Deacon, when Anthony called him a friend, made more sense. Anthony had done it because MacCready needed help. Period. Because they managed to build some kind of friendship out of this weird transaction. And from the sound of it, it surprised MacCready as much as anyone. It was uncomfortably familiar.

“Anyway, the—” MacCready makes an abortive gesture with his cigarette “—y’know, settlement security thing came later. The Minutemen were still picking up the pieces and it was just like he told you. Who better to know how to keep people like the Gunners out than one of their own?” He wrinkles his nose a little after he says it, and adds, “Not that I was ever really a, uh, five star member. Good fu—fricking riddance.”

There’s another opening there, if Deacon wants to take it. And he does. Which makes him look away sharply, scrambling to steady himself against the wave of anxiety that little realization sends through his chest. He looks at what he can see of the broken street beyond the church, until the height makes him dizzy and he has to look away from that too. God, he wants to run. He wants to barrel back down the stairs, grab his things, and run down that street until his legs give out. And he can list all the points for himself about self-preservation, he can count out all the reasons that it’s safer for him to be alone. But it was so much easier to convince himself that was what he was afraid of before he knew things like _Anthony will face down an entire gang for people he cares about just because he fucking cares._ Not going to have much luck making himself believe he’s going to get backstabbed and sold out in the face of that. 

No. The real problem, the real fucking problem, is that when _Deacon_ does something like care about people that much, he gets them fucking killed.

Deacon clears his throat, and wraps his hands around the bottle so MacCready won’t see them shaking. “Well, anyway, you should head down and get some sleep while you still can.”

There’s a flicker of confusion on MacCready’s face, so brief it would take someone with Deacon’s brand of perception to catch it. Then MacCready shrugs and takes a last drag of the cigarette before moving to stub it out. Deacon catches his hand and plucks it away instead. 

“No need to waste it,” he says, drawing it to his lips. He just means to steal it to settle his nerves, since it’ll take half the bottle of liquor to do the same. It doesn’t occur to him until he sees that confusion back in bold on MacCready’s face how any of that looked, or that he’s still holding MacCready’s wrist. He drops it.

“I, uh—” MacCready’s staring at him, and Deacon keeps his sunglasses forward but turns his eyes away, because _Christ, you idiot, what are you doing?_ “I didn’t think you smoked.”

“Depends on the role I’m playing. Who I need to be in the moment,” Deacon says, and barely keeps from wincing. His traitorous eyes drift back up, and he watches something change in MacCready’s face, and shutter closed. Deacon looks away again.

“Right. The role you’re playing,” MacCready says, warmth gone out of his tone. He frowns down at the floor for a long moment. Then he shifts forward. “You gonna move, or what?”

Deacon climbs up into the steeple properly, taking the bottle with him, and MacCready drops onto the stairs. He hesitates a moment, then grabs the bottle out of Deacon’s hand before Deacon notices in time to tighten his grip.

“Hey!” Deacon says, reaching for it.

“Think you’ve had enough,” MacCready says, holding it too far down for Deacon to grab without toppling. He gives Deacon one last look, and then disappears down the stairs. Deacon stares after him for a long time, letting smoke fill his lungs. 

When they get back to HQ, Deacon’s going to ask Dez for reassignment.

\----

When the Railroad found Deacon slumped on the steps of his farmhouse, there was still blood under his fingernails. He could still smell it on his palms every time he scratched his nose or rubbed his eyes. The last bits of every home he’d ever had were in those brown flakes: the friends he’d grown up with, and followed, and killed for, and the woman he’d given every good part of him he had left after that. 

That was how he learned to tether himself inside his body, when the worst of the grief or anxiety spun him out too far. Most of the first few months after it happened, he had trouble convincing himself he wasn’t dreaming. That the people in front of him were real, living, breathing, and actually there. He remembered so little of the days after Barbara died, he started to wonder if they’d happened at all, and if he wasn’t going to wake up in the dirt between his tato plants. It felt as though he’d been cut off from the world, detached somehow from everyone and everything, even his own body. He’d sit awake on his bedroll some nights and just stare down at his hands, turning them over to see the last bits of brown buried under his nails where water hadn’t reached, and he’d whisper over and over to himself, “They’re real. This is real.” Then he’d bury his face in them and swear he could still smell that heavy, copper scent. And something about it all would snap the world back into focus, as if jerking him awake.

He’d thrown himself into the work they gave him then, because it gave him a reason to keep waking up. He took every menial job and talked to anyone who looked at him just so he’d start to feel like he belonged there. So they’d let him belong there. So he could fill that gaping hole in his chest with anything, anyone, whatever he could make matter. 

And then he lost it all again. 

It was Coursers, that first time. Another home, up in flames. More friends, dead at his feet. More loss to pile on more grief, until he couldn’t breathe through the violent panic of it. Once again, he was the only one who made it out alive.

“Deacon” was born out of those ashes. That was when he finally learned the price of investment. He learned to survive loss by becoming a man with nothing to lose. He buried his grief with his name.

Maybe it’s fitting that he’s the one that started the dead drops, and started shrouding the names of runners and tourists in code and secrecy, and started plotting evacuation routes out of every HQ. Connection is liability. Intimacy is danger. At practical levels, and at private ones. 

Survival—his, but really everyone else‘s—is the only thing that matters. The survival of the synths. The survival of the Railroad, of everyone in it, and everyone allied with them. So the best gift he can give any of them, the best show of friendship, is distance. That’s the only way to keep them safe.

Even when it stings.

So when they get to HQ, and MacCready leaves to wait for them in Goodneighbor, Deacon knows what he has to do. He waits through Anthony’s explanation of their plans for Nahant. He watches him spread out the crude marker drawings over Desdemona’s makeshift war table, and she nods along as he points out walls and turrets. Deacon tries to listen, but the longer he stands still, the stronger he feels that untethered, unsettled feeling carrying him out of the conversation and out of the moment and nearly out of his head. He’d been fighting it down the whole walk there, having to stare at the motion of MacCready’s boots in front of him to keep himself moving. He digs his fingers into the brick of the war table, letting the roughened mortar scratch his fingertips, forcing himself to feel it. 

He makes himself pull details from the room. Tinker Tom hunches over his computer in the corner, his absurd headgear tilting low over his brow. Glory hisses on the other side of the room as Carrington presses gauze to her bare arm, pulled out of her coat sleeve. The smell of antiseptic cuts sharply through the musty scent clinging to the bricks around them. In another corner, Drummer Boy’s fingers fly across his typewriter keys, a staccato rhythm he can feel more than hear. 

That manages to pull Deacon back into himself enough to catch Anthony saying, “So that’s why we think that the Manor is the best choice for the safehouse itself. Right, Deacon?”

“Yeah, it’s got promise,” he says, tightening his hold on the brick.

It’s another ten minutes before he finally gets Desdemona alone, gesturing her toward the back hallway. 

“I know what you’re going to say,” she tells him, before he can even open his mouth. They stand together between a pair of rusty shelves stacked haphazardly with supplies. Deacon leans his arm on top of one of them and watches Desdemona light her third cigarette of the hour. 

She rocks back on her feet. “You want to know why I jumped on the Minutemen project without waiting for you. I had no choice.”

“Actually, I was going to—”

“Patriot sent us four at once, another work crew escape,” Desdemona says, taking a heavy drag.

“Four?!” Deacon straightens. It’s not the most they’ve been sent at one time, but it’s a heavy gamble when it happens, and it makes Deacon itch to know what’s happening on that side of things, what this guy is thinking when he pulls shit like that. Is it worth the risk? Does he know the Commonwealth, what can happen if they can’t intercept them in time?

“Four,” Desdemona repeats. She begins to pace in front of him, waving the cigarette in circles as she talks, leaving a jagged line of smoke behind her. “They’re in Bunker Hill and I don’t need to tell you they need to be moved. Yesterday. But it’s too soon to gamble on Randolph, and Griswold is a hotbed. Glory had to take out a whole group of Gunners moving in. And Augusta’s still dark. We’re running out of options.”

“Shit.” Deacon rubs his forehead. He was right. He’s been gone too long.

“We have space in a couple of the other safehouses but if we get another shipment like this?” She takes a drag and finally stops in front of him. “It was a risk. Jumping in with Bullseye’s people. But it was going to be a risk either way. None of your reports indicate Institute plots, or Brotherhood. So if you do have any reservations, anything at all, now is the time.”

Deacon takes a deep breath. It surprises even him, how quickly the answer comes, even as he thinks back over every suspicion he’d tried to hold onto, or justify. “No. He’s on the level. I think he just...really is that altruistic.”

“Then we’re beyond lucky to have him. And we need to move forward as fast as possible,” Desdemona says, smoke trailing from her lips. “And his training?”

“He knows everything he needs to,” Deacon says. “He hasn’t done a run yet, but it sounds like there’s plenty of opportunity.”

“Excellent. Good work.” A little tension bleeds from her shoulders.

“So I was thinking since he’s—”

“I want you working closely with them on this. This is unprecedented and I need to be sure every detail is being looked after. No one knows how to do that better than you,” Desdemona says.

Deacon huffs out a half-hearted laugh. “Translation: put your paranoia to good use?”

“Your paranoia has saved us more than once, don’t think I’m not aware of that, even if I don’t always agree with how you act on it,” Desdemona says, frowning. Deacon sobers.

“Uh, thanks, Dez. But listen, I think—”

“Deacon!”

They both look up. Anthony leans his head around the corner before Deacon can finish. 

“Oh, sorry,” he says, faltering in the doorway. 

“It’s all right, Bullseye. What do you need?” Desdemona says.

Anthony jerks his thumb over his shoulder. “Drummer Boy got us another dead drop from Randolph. Location’s on the way back anyway, so we should get going, unless there’s anything else you need to do?”

The way back. To Goodneighbor. To Sanctuary. 

Deacon looks at Desdemona, who’s already drifting back up the hall. He starts to open his mouth, to call her back, but the words die in his throat. 

He settles his gaze on Anthony, and swallows down against the churning in his stomach. He forces a smile. “I’m all set, buddy. Just let me get changed.”

——

Among the possible reactions to the dead drop’s holotape, Anthony’s groan of “Oh, fuck _me_” is not really on the list of Top Ten Things Deacon Wants to Hear Right Now. He’d spent the walk over—between peeking around buildings for surprise ferals or any of his other favorites—trying to think up a believeable excuse to separate off, pull on one of his Goodneighbor persona disguises, and just be someone the fuck else for a few hours before he’s forced to meet up with them again. But the half-baked idea dies before he even finds the words when he sees Anthony looking at his PipBoy like it just shanked him. 

“So, gonna guess the mission isn’t shooing some adorable little puppies out of the road,” Deacon says, peering over Anthony’s shoulder.

“Quincy,” Anthony says, lifting his arm for Deacon to see the PipBoy’s map. “They want us to clear out Quincy.”

Deacon lets out a low whistle. “Wow, fuck you indeed.” 

Anthony squeezes his eyes shut. “How the fuck are we supposed to—” 

Deacon nudges him and puts a finger to his own lips. It’s a quiet little side street they’re on, and the sun was well past set when they left HQ, so they’re tucked back into pretty deep shadows between two towering buildings. But they’re a lot closer to Haymarket than Deacon would like, and just because he’s not seeing any light from the windows and rooftops above him doesn’t mean no one’s listening.

Anthony sighs and nods, and continues at a whisper. “I can’t just—I mean, I can’t go there without Preston. I can’t go there without telling the Minutemen. This is—this has history.” 

Deacon nods. He’s almost perversely grateful to have a different problem to settle his thoughts on. “Yeah, there’s not going to be any way of keeping that one a secret. Clearing out Quincy will make waves.”

“And I know RJ’s going to be pissed if we try to take on the Gunners without him,” Anthony says. He turns the PipBoy away, and rubs the bridge of his nose. “God, is there really no other route they can take? No alternative at all?” 

Deacon glances around them again, and shakes his head. “Let’s talk somewhere else.” 

When they reach Goodneighbor, Anthony takes them straight to the bar without even a passing glance at the Rexford, and yeah, Deacon’s on board with that. This is a three glass problem, minimum. This whole week has been a three _bottle_ problem.

Magnolia’s voice pours through the door the minute they open it, along with the din of a clearly full house. A nod from the doorman gets them down the stairs and pushing through the smoke and people to the front of the bar. They find MacCready perched dead center, leaning his head in his hand, talking to… shit, the mayor himself.

“Hey, boss,” MacCready says. His eyes are a little glassy, a little unfocused, and he has to squint a bit to get a good look at Anthony. “Well, that face looks like good news.”

His gaze drifts to Deacon. He frowns, and looks away without saying anything. They’d barely spoken at all since last night. It feels like a door is shutting between them, and Deacon tries to remind himself that was what he’d wanted. 

“If it isn’t my favorite ice cream sandwich,” Hancock says with a smile. “Twice in one week! And he brought friends!”

“This is—” Anthony turns, then hesitates, but Deacon gives him a nod. “Uh, Deacon. Not sure if you’ve met?” 

“Haven’t had the pleasure,” Hancock says, but Deacon knows that look. An appraising sort of recognition that means he’s heard the name, if not seen the face. It makes Deacon itch a little, but he’s not that surprised. He’d been pretty sure for a while now that Whitechapel Charlie could clock him through a couple of his disguises, and he’d be a fool to think that wouldn’t get back to Hancock one way or another. Topping that, MacCready’s not exactly the king of subtlety, and probably let the name slip if they were catching up. But Hancock has always turned a blind eye to the Railroad’s movements through Goodneighbor, and Deacon’s gone out of his way not to make any waves. When Hancock offers his hand, Deacon takes it, and that seems to be the end of it.

“So, mind if I steal this one?” Anthony says, resting a hand on MacCready’s shoulder.

“All business tonight, huh?” Hancock says. He waves Charlie over. “Their drinks are on me, whatever they want.”

“Thanks, man,” Anthony says. “Back room open, by chance?”

“Depends,” Hancock says, with a lazy smirk. “You gonna take me with you the next time you get something fun on the line? Heard the Minutemen cleared the chrome domes out of University Point. I could’ve used a little Institute target practice, brother.”

“You’ll be the first person I call next time,” Anthony says. “And trust me, there will be a lot of next times.”

“I meant what I said about taking a walk.” Hancock grabs the rim of his glass, slipping off the bar stool. He looks over Anthony’s shoulder and makes some kind of gesture with his fingers Deacon takes to be a signal to the triggerman leaning against the wall across the room. As Deacon watches him turn and head into the back, he catches sight of someone in the corner. A short man, light-skinned, greying at the temples. Shit, one of his contacts is here, one he’s been waiting to hear from. But then several people are stumbling out of the back, grumbling to each other, and he loses sight of him in the crowd.

“Next time,” Hancock says behind him, and Deacon turns to see him pointing over the rim of the glass at Anthony.

“Scout’s honor,” Anthony says, raising his hand.

“Whatever that means.” Hancock looks over at MacCready. “And you. Take my advice for once, would ya, Mac? You’ll thank me later.”

MacCready just gives him a lopsided smile and waves him off.

It’s putting Deacon on edge a little, if he’s honest, to be seen yet again in the same company in the same place, now following them into the VIP Room cleared out by Hancock’s direct and obvious order. He’d avoided Hancock on purpose for years, flipping through disguises like book pages to avoid attention, but that was going to be a lot harder now without a face change. Before they left HQ, he’d pulled on some beaten up road leathers he’s reasonably sure he’s never worn in Goodneighbor, but that only gets you so far when you’re racking up people that know your damn name. And if his contact takes too long of a look at him, even though he’s usually in a wig and a far different set of clothes, that’ll be a whole new set of problems. He glances around again, but the man seems to have disappeared into the crowd.

He makes sure to sit facing the entryway as they settle into the back room, the tables still littered with empty beer bottles and full ashtrays. It’s quieter here, and that doesn’t help Deacon’s nerves, either; their footsteps echo off the walls enough to let him know their voices will too.

“So, what’s the story?” MacCready says, immediately proving Deacon’s right when his voice carries. He leans forward over his knees, dangling his beer between them.

Anthony answers far more quietly. “We got another site to clear out.”

“Okay…?” MacCready isn’t too drunk to take the hint, at least, and lowers his voice. He looks from Anthony to Deacon and back, expectant.

Anthony sighs. “Deacon, you’re absolutely sure there’s no other way?”

Deacon takes a sip of his whiskey and shakes his head. He hesitates a moment, but MacCready’s been involved enough now that there’s probably little point in trying to get him out of earshot. Might make a decent tourist, if he actually gave enough of a shit. “There aren’t a lot of safe, or relatively safe, ways out of the Commonwealth. That number shrinks even more when you factor in viable recipients for our ‘packages.’” He starts counting off the options on his fingers. “They could try hugging the coast, but that takes them way out of the way and into unknown territory, which could make them walk right into an even bigger threat we don’t know about. Swinging around the other way takes them too far west. There isn’t a way through the swamp that doesn’t lead to open water and avoiding that takes them too close to the Glowing Sea. Trying to make up a new route north would take too long, and the longer the packages stay in one place, the bigger the target gets on the safehouse door. Quincy is basically unavoidable.”

“Shit,” Anthony says, pursing his lips. “That’s not what I wanted to hear.”

“Hang on, back up,” MacCready says, loud enough that Anthony shushes him. He scoffs but continues in a whisper, “Quincy? Did you just say Quincy? Boss, that’s—”

“I know,” Anthony says. “Really fucking complicated.”

“I was going to say suicide,” MacCready says. “That place is crawling with Gunners. It was their crowning achievement of the year. They never fu—fricking shut up about it.” 

“Were you there?”

It’s out before Deacon can stop it. Shit. MacCready’s eyes snap to him, expression immediately darkening.

“No, Deacon,” he says slowly, acid dripping from every syllable. “I didn’t help destroy the Minutemen.” 

“Guys—” Anthony starts.

“Probably would’ve cut my losses a lot sooner if they’d asked me,” MacCready grumbles.

Deacon shifts. “I didn’t mean—”

“Yes you fucking did,” MacCready snaps, eyes narrow and angry. There’s a flicker, just a flicker, of genuine hurt across his face, and then it’s gone, locked away again. 

“Shelf it, both of you,” Anthony says, holding up his hands. “I need your help with this. Focus.”

Deacon feels bile burning in the back of his throat. He doesn’t look up, doesn’t want to see MacCready’s expression change. _This is for the best,_ he tells himself again. _Whatever you can say that keeps him away, even if you didn’t mean to do it. Use it._ He frowns to himself.

“Now,” Anthony says pointedly, “if you’re telling me there’s no alternative, then this has to happen. But there’s no doing this covertly. There’s too many of them and there’s too much complicating it. It’d take too much time.”

“You could put together a team, maybe Hancock, or your Brotherhood pal, leave the Minutemen out of it—” MacCready says.

“And how would you take that, in Preston’s shoes?” Anthony says. He raises an eyebrow. “And I can’t involve Hancock and turn the Gunners’ eyes on Goodneighbor. Plus getting the Brotherhood involved is going to create about thirty new problems, not the least of which is demanding a stake in the win.”

MacCready deflates. “Right.”

“So lean into the Minutemen plan,” Deacon says, staring at Anthony’s shoes. He takes a heavier sip of his drink.

“Come again?” Anthony says.

“Lean into it. If you can’t go for subtle, go for loud and flashy enough to obscure the truth.” He turns, setting his glass down, trying to ignore the way MacCready stiffens a little in his periphery. 

“What, bash the door down and toss a bomb in?” Anthony asks.

“If you have to. But like you said, Quincy going down is going to be news either way, so why not make yourself look good while you’re at it?” Deacon leans forward. “It’s kind of made for it, right? The Minutemen are back and better than ever, thanks to you. It’ll make sense that you’d turn your eye on their biggest loss, and want to take back what’s yours. People’ll see the Minutemen are a force to be reckoned with if they take down the Gunners, think twice about messing with you, and come running to get on your good side. You get the town back, Garvey gets revenge, we get a clear route. Everybody wins.”

Anthony sits back a little, frowning in thought. “So you’re suggesting a full frontal assault? That...could risk a lot of lives.”

“This isn’t some back alley raider gang,” MacCready adds. “Not that I’m not all for watching them go down in flames, but they’re going to have a lot of men and a lot of fire power.” 

“Then an army is probably the only way to do this either way,” Deacon says.

MacCready’s eyes narrow at him again. “You guys are asking a heck of a lot here. You’re telling the Minutemen to risk their lives for a cause they’re not even going to know about—”

“I know what we’re asking,” Deacon says, fighting the urge to grit his teeth.

Anthony leans his head back against the couch cushions, scrubbing his hands over his face. He doesn’t answer.

MacCready curls his lip. “It’d make a lot more sense for you people to risk your own, then come begging someone else—”

“We are!” Deacon says, He closes his eyes, reminding himself to keep it down, and starts again. “They’re risking their lives right now, as we speak, every second. We don’t have the kind of people to do what needs to be done, and you know why? Because they keep getting slaughtered by the same fucking Coursers that are going to come beating down the door if we don’t do something—”

“Enough,” Anthony says. “Deacon’s...not wrong. The idea isn’t a terrible one and it could be a major win if we succeed. It’s going to get complicated with the Brotherhood when they find out the Minutemen made this move and I didn’t tell them first, but we’ll cross that bridge when we get to it.” He sighs again, and looks at Deacon. “I know the Railroad has limited resources, but you do have intel. So in return for the Minutemen making this effort, I want ears to ground for us, too. Sharing information. Especially about the Institute, and any relevant information on local problems, or threats.”

“Would’ve done that anyway,” Deacon says. “You’ve got me right here, and I’ve already shown you what my skills can do for you. For your settlements.”

“But I’m talking about—”

“I know. Yes. Whatever you need.”

Anthony looks at him a little harder. “Desdemona will agree to that?”

“With what’s at stake? With what you’ve already done? Hell yes, she will.”

Anthony nods. His eyes drift over to MacCready, who shakes his head and looks away.

“You know what I think,” he says. “They owe you a hell of a lot more than that. But if you’re doing this, then I’m with you.”

Anthony leans forward, grabbing his beer. “Well. Looks like we’ve got a battle to plan.”

\----

Hours later, Deacon leans against the side of the old apartment building across from the Third Rail’s entrance, a cigarette burning between his fingers. It’s the first sense of palpable relief he’s felt since last night, standing on the street in battered black leather and a short-cropped brown wig, his usual shades switched out for a pair of aviators. He shifts into character easily once the clothes are on; his posture changes, and his walk, and the way he holds his shoulders, the way his mouth settles into a thin line. This is Goodneighbor persona number three, Jack Hammer (he’d been damn proud of coming up with that one until almost no one ever asked his name). 

He keeps his shoulder pressed to the corner as he smokes, and he waits. There’s a decent chance he missed his shot, having to stay in the VIP Room so long with the others, but it’s worth the wait just to settle into someone else’s shoes for a couple hours, to push everything else into the back of his head. For as long as it takes to watch the door, he’s just Jack, just some drifter, some wanderer, with just enough of an air about him that might mean a past life as a mercenary, or a raider, or a bodyguard. Just enough of a hint to get nods but not questions. Just another moth to Goodneighbor’s flame. 

It’s almost midnight by the time his contact steps out of the bar. Deacon shows no sign of recognition, just watches him light a cigarette of his own and waits to be seen. The man turns his head to blow smoke into the air and glances at him, and past him, and then back to him again with wider eyes. To his credit, he doesn’t do much more--no nod, no wave. He just slowly moves to one of the benches in front of the door, and sits down. 

Deacon lets a minute go by, and then flicks the butt of his cigarette away. He slides his hands into his pockets and strolls into the open, coming to lean his ass on the back of the bench, at the opposite end. He stretches his feet in front of him, crossing one over the other, and stares up at the neon sign over the Memory Den. Once again, he waits.

“Say, bud, you got a geiger counter?” the man asks. Deacon’s only ever known him as “Duck,” never asked for more than that. 

“Sorry man,” Deacon says, letting his voice rasp in his throat, the vowels tilting into a Jersey accent. “Mine’s in the shop.” 

“Just my luck,” Duck says. Deacon hears another exhale, sees the smoke drift out over his shoulder. “Been awhile.”

“Busy month,” Deacon says. He sees Duck nod out of the corner of his eye, and tap the ash from his cigarette onto the cobblestones below. 

“So, any word on that lost package?”

Duck sighs. “Yeah. Sorry. Got destroyed in shipping.” 

Deacon closes his eyes under his shades. God damn it. 

A couple weeks before he met Anthony (officially), he’d been trying to track down a runner that had gone missing, along with his package, just beyond Goodneighbor’s front door. It was almost never good news, a thing like that, but every once in a great while, they got lucky. Not this time.

“How’d it happen?” he asks. At least there might be something they could learn from, some flaw in the route, something to watch out for. 

“Raiders,” comes the reply. Deacon watches another burst of smoke drift toward the Den.

“Let me guess. L & L?” he says. 

“Yeah,” Duck says. “Listen, that’s all I got.” 

Not much to go on. God damn raider gang, always targeting synths. Dez wasn’t going to be happy, but they’d given the runner up as a loss anyway. Deacon pulls a small bag of caps out of his pocket. He waits as Duck stands and pretends to stretch. Deacon holds the bag low, just outside his pocket, and waits for Duck to pass by and reach for it, covering the motion with a turn of his body. 

“Stay safe,” he says. Duck spares him a nod as he slips the bag into his pocket. 

As he moves off down the street, following the line of streetlights toward the drifter tents in the corner, Deacon’s eyes catch someone stepping out of the Rexford. Someone familiar. Shit.

MacCready stands outside the entrance for a moment, slipping a cigarette between his lips and leaning down to light it. Deacon stays still, turning his face back toward the Den but keeping his eyes on the Rexford. MacCready takes a long drag, leaning his head back. 

It’s as he’s straightening up to step toward the curb that his eyes fall on Deacon. Deacon doesn’t move, doesn’t make any sign he’s even noticed MacCready’s there. He just lets the edge of the bench dig into his tailbone, folds his arms across his chest, and keeps his face forward. He’s almost positive MacCready’s never seen this particular wig, and Deacon doesn’t wear these leathers unless he’s in Goodneighbor. Maybe he’ll get lucky.

MacCready takes a couple steps forward and squints at him across the dark street. He plucks the cigarette from his mouth, and for a long moment, he just stares. Deacon wants to shift, the weight of it making him restless, but he forces himself to stay put. 

Finally, MacCready frowns, curling his nose like he’s caught a whiff of something rancid. He shakes his head slowly, eyes sliding away. He turns his back, wandering toward the guard wall and taking another drag.

Deacon breathes out. He bends his head down, staring at his feet with something that feels a lot like regret. After a moment, he straightens and moves toward the bar. He needs a fucking drink.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1) Honestly, when you erase in-game limits, there’s no reason the Minutemen couldn’t take that whole peninsula in Nahant, there are so many in tact buildings!
> 
> 2) The end of the scene in the church steeple made my beta exclaim, “Oh my god, Deacon you sex terrorist!” I mean he’s not doing it on _purpose_...
> 
> 3) I have a lot of bleak headcanons for Deacon’s past, apologies. I just strongly imagine he spent the first few months with the Railroad dissociated and trying to figure out who he even was now. And how traumatic to go from that to once again being the only survivor of a massacre. The terminals aren’t specific as to how long he was with the Railroad prior to Wyatt’s first entry (assuming Deacon is John D.) so I think I put it in my head at less than a year.
> 
> 4) Okay so for the record I wrote this before the Creation Club update. It was always genuinely bewildering to me that going back to Quincy wasn’t a much bigger deal in the game. That has pretty huge implications for a growing political faction that originally lost that ground! There’s no option to resettle but it’s definitely happening in this fic because it just makes sense to me.
> 
> For those celebrating, I hope you have a great Thanksgiving. It took absolute ages and a lot of waffling and rewriting but I’m finally finished with Chapter 8, it’ll go up as soon as I have a draft for Chapter 9. I’m determined that’ll be by Christmas.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stakeouts lead to truces lead to big shootouts and brushes with death lead to figuring out that yeah, okay, maybe they are friends after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As promised, just under the wire, an update to round out the year. Apologies I couldn't get it done sooner, this has been a genuinely crazy month at work and I've spent most of my free time sleeping it all off. This chapter also took for god damn forever to come together, I had about ninety different versions of some of the scenes, none of them wanted to work. But I triumphed. Thanks once again to everyone who's stuck with this story, your patience and encouragement both mean the world. I hope this is a suitable holiday gift: finally officially reaching the friendship stage of enemies to friends to lovers. 
> 
> And of course, thanks to **serenity-fails** for patiently reading and re-reading all the different versions of these scenes and helping me make them sound right. Best beta, best friend.
> 
> Warnings: The second scene, Deacon's memory of first meeting Nick, contains some graphic description of a nose bleed.

Through a gap in the wooden boards nailed over a third floor apartment window, Deacon watches a man in wrinkled army fatigues pluck charred meat off a skewer. He’s seated on an overturned cinder block on the part of the Quincy police station roof that hasn’t managed to cave in yet. A rifle splashed with green paint lays across his lap. He chews on the meat and stares out over the rooftops surrounding him, licking his fingers. He’s been sitting like that for twenty minutes, unmoving, and Deacon’s neck is killing him.

Deacon lowers his binoculars and drags his thumb along the cord of muscle below his skull. He’s four hours into his round of watch. It’s pushing noon, and it’s another hot, windless day that leaves the air stagnant and sticky, a parting gift from a long-ass July. At least with the windows boarded, it’s marginally cooler inside. Deacon’s spent all four of these sweaty hours perched on a wooden chair he’d found in the corner. He’d had to sweep a century’s worth of dust off the last fragments of a mostly-rotted cushion, and the wood is digging into his tail bone. 

There’s not much to the bedroom he’s stationed himself in, picked because it was one of the few that had a gap in the boards over the windows wide enough to see through without prying them up. An ancient bed frame hunches against one wall, cradling the rusted spring skeleton of a long lost mattress. Two end tables flank the bed frame, caked with dust, each holding a dead lamp. Across the room sits a rickety dresser lined with Stealth Boys and a long-range walkie-talkie salvaged from the bowels of the Castle armory. Their packs slump haphazardly around it. Deacon sits between the two and tries not to feel like he’s sitting in a really heavy-handed metaphor for his own life. He’s had way too much time to think in here.

That’s the problem with stakeouts, really—not much to do _but_ sit and think. It’s that limbo space of waiting, that coiled spring pressed flat, or finger poised on the trigger, or tripline pulled taut. A whole body full of contained energy held back, just ready to fucking explode.

Okay, so _maybe_ he’s projecting. A little.

They’d come back from Goodneighbor—Deacon, MacCready, and Anthony—with the scraps of a plan for Quincy. Once they reached Sanctuary, they got Garvey in on it and he sketched out a rough map of the town as he remembered it, and helped glue the pieces of their plan together. It was going to take a couple of days to gather enough of the Minutemen to carry it all out, so it was hardly a day before they were leaving Sanctuary behind for the Castle. Anthony and Garvey would stay and gather the troops while they sent a few others out to scout ahead and gather information—guard rotations, numbers, movements, anything and everything.

Deacon was the obvious choice to send, but Anthony didn’t want him going alone, and needed a round-the-clock watch. Anthony figured he could sweet talk Nick Valentine into joining them, if he wasn’t on a case. They could leave the overnight duty in his hands, since he didn’t need to sleep. 

And then there was MacCready. Even Deacon couldn’t reasonably argue he shouldn’t join them: he knew the Gunners, knew their habits and their ranks, the kind of defenses to expect. So, out the three of them marched from the Castle to Quincy’s outskirts. And now, they watch. And wait. 

They sit in fucking limbo. Where Deacon feels like he’s already been for days.

MacCready’s only so good at the silent treatment. Deacon figured that out a couple weeks ago. If he’s got something to seethe about, it’s either going to boil over or it’s going to leak out in potshots and easy insults. So it’s not like they _haven’t_ spoken since that night in Goodneighbor. It’s just that they’re grumbling under their breath and speaking in one word answers that have even Nick raising a mechanical eyebrow.

It shouldn’t be bothering Deacon. It’s some facsimile of how things were when they started, and he keeps trying to remind himself that’s safer territory. Wrenching them both back from the edge of some kind of friendship _now_, before one of them pays the price for bad judgment or blunted instincts or simple, stupid proximity, is the kindest thing Deacon could do. Especially for a guy that’s got a kid out there, somewhere. 

That doesn’t mean Deacon has to like it. If someone held a gun to his head, he’d admit he misses the easy conversation. And wishes he understood why it feels so much like the wrong move when it’s the only possible right one. But he’s not at gunpoint, so he’s sitting in this chair, and trying not to think about it. Which means he’s constantly thinking about it.

A shout from below shakes him back into the present. He straightens and presses the binoculars to the gap over the window. The Gunner he’d been watching eat his lunch is on his feet, yelling to another on the roof across the street. He gestures back toward the town square. The newer Gunner shrugs and points the same way, calling something back. Lunch Meat throws his hands up and shakes his head, stalking back over to the cinder block. Deacon leans back again.

It had been lucky, finding this place with a lock to pick instead of a board to tackle down. They’d aimed to set up camp somewhere around the police station depending on what they could break into without attracting attention, and what the Gunners hadn’t already claimed. Watching the entire town wasn’t possible—it was too big, too spread out, and MacCready had correctly predicted the Gunners would already have claimed the highest vantage point nearby, a section of the old highway. So Anthony pointed them where he planned to make his first attack. The police station sat behind the rest of the main square, a little isolated, the perfect place to make some noise and get some of the main gang to come running, taking the focus off the other four entrances. The bulk of the Minutemen’s troops would then attack those four gates simultaneously, with the opposition thinned.

So they concentrated their watch on the police station. Deacon took the morning watch, MacCready the evening, and Nick the overnight. They took turns in between making use of the Stealth Boys, stealing around the perimeter as close as they dared (where Nick was now), or scoping out the outskirts for sniper perches and patrols (the direction MacCready had gone, after a weak breakfast of dry Sugar Bombs split between him and Deacon while they sat on opposite sides of the room). Deacon’s not honestly sure if it’s better or worse to be alone.

As if on cue, he hears a door open and close quietly a few floors below him. He stands, slides his shades back down from his forehead, and creeps to the bedroom doorway, pressing his back flat to the wall next to it. He waits, his hand slipping under his shirt to where Deliverer rests against his spine. After a couple minutes pass, a rhythmic knock sounds on the apartment’s front door, the pattern they’d all agreed to. Deacon relaxes and moves to open it. 

“Any change?” Nick asks, stepping into the room when Deacon holds the door out. He sets his spent Stealth Boy on a side table, next to a couple others.

“I watched some guy eat his lunch for about half an hour and I’d just about commit murder for some squirrel bits right now,” Deacon says. 

“Sometimes I’m glad I don’t have to eat.” Nick watches Deacon walk back into the bedroom and fish some jerky out of his pack. “Any movement from the woman in power armor?”

“Haven’t seen her leave,” Deacon says between bites, leaning on the door frame. “I think she’s still on the ground floor.”

Nick frowns. “Well, I think they’ve got more than one set of that stuff sitting around. Hard to tell without getting too close, but I heard some heavy footsteps stomping around on the overpass that sounded like those suits do. I saw a charging station in the church.”

“Shit. That means at least two heavy weapons, guaranteed. I’d put my caps on a missile launcher, for sure. These guys love their military bullshit.”

“That’s what I thought, too. I’ll let Anthony know. So much for a simple operation, huh?” Nick moves toward the door. 

Deacon turns and wanders back to his chair, spinning the jerky between his fingers. “Don’t think it was ever going to be simple.”

“Right,” Nick says, distantly. He stops at the dresser, but doesn’t reach for the walkie. “So, out of curiosity, what got you roped into all this?”

Deacon casually reaches for the binoculars, an excuse to avoid Nick’s eyes, even if Nick can’t see his through the shades. He shrugs. “I assume Anthony told you he’s—“

“Taken up the shipping business?” Nick chuckles. “I got that much just from running into you in Sanctuary. Think I’ve been your contact long enough to know you’re only ever somewhere if you have a reason to be.”

Deacon smirks. “Got me there.”

“So is this all Minutemen, or—?”

“Now, Nick,” Deacon says, turning back to the window and sliding the sunglasses on top of his head, “you know I can’t divulge—“

“That’s all the answer I need. Mutual back-scratching, is it?” Nick says. 

Deacon bites off another bit of jerky as he raises the binoculars. “Why do you ask?”

“Like I said, just curious. Wondered if maybe that’s what’s got Mac all moody.” Deacon hears shuffling on the dresser. “The two of you aren’t exactly fond of each other, huh?”

“Oh come on, Valentine, everyone loves me.” Deacon looks back and flashes him a smile.

“Think _that’s_ all the answer I need, too,” Nick says. He pulls the walkie up and presses a button. “General, come in?”

Deacon looks away, popping the last of the jerky into his mouth. Outside, Lunch Meat wanders to the edge of the roof and kicks a pebble off the edge. He watches it drop, then heaves a sigh. _Yeah_, Deacon thinks, _you and me both._

——

Nick Valentine had been Deacon’s contact almost as long as Deacon had been, well, Deacon.

Hard to forget the first time he ever stepped foot in Nick’s office. The sign out front had been faded red paint on a wooden board, not the bright neon of a few years down the road. The office had been a storage shed for the farmers in the back fields until Nick got his hands on it. Even without all the filing cabinets that would later line the walls, it had been small, and still smelled of dirt and brahmin dung. Deacon got all of about ten minutes to look around after he picked the lock before he was hit in the face with the front door. 

It hadn’t been his finest hour.

Okay, so maybe he’d been a little rusty on the whole “breaking and entering” thing. Of the handful of years he’d spent in the Railroad at that point, half of them had been as a runner. He’d spent the other half recruiting and planning and convincing Wyatt that said plans were good plans, actually, and just because “dead drops” sounded like an idea he stole out of an Old World spy novel didn’t mean they were a _bad_ stolen idea. Regardless, that hadn’t left much room to spit-shine his arsenal of juvenile delinquent skills. Sure, there’d been the occasional abandoned house, but those locks practically fell open with a stern look and a few jiggles of the handle. So picking the office lock ended up taking longer than he expected, and he ducked in fast, sure a guard might turn the corner any minute. He completely forgot to re-lock the door behind him. Naturally, the laws of the universe concerning Deacon’s luck dictated that Valentine had to come home early to find said unlocked door. 

And honestly, hiding behind the door so he could slip out once Valentine walked in would have been a completely viable and solid plan. How was Deacon supposed to know Nick would decide to kick the door open full force and leap into the office with his gun drawn? It’s hard to be cool and subtle with blood fountaining out of your possibly-broken nose and soaking your carefully chosen black hoodie. 

Things had been going so well, too. Two weeks before, he’d stumbled on the foundation of an old cabin, tucked back into the woods northeast of Diamond City in old Allston. Nothing much left of the thing except one wall half-collapsed onto another. But, buried in the rubble, he’d found a trunk with the lock rusted off. Inside that trunk sat a _U.S. Covert Operations Manual._ Deacon read it cover to cover four times and left it dog-eared and underlined in his pack.

He hadn’t thought much about his appearance when he first joined the Railroad. When he was out on a run, he usually tugged a black beanie over his curly ginger hair, more to blend into the shadows better than anything else. He definitely never thought twice about his eyes, which were a pretty noticeable light blue. After he read the manual, he stared at all of that in the cracked mirror at HQ, thinking of Chapter Four: “Blend into the Background (How to Get Rid of Identifying Marks and Become Forgettable).” Not much he could do about some of it; freckles called for Old World makeup--which wasn’t easy to find--or for saving up the caps for a facial alteration surgery. 

Huh. That was a thought.

Well, until then, he _could_ shave his hair off, and buy a pair of sunglasses. Which was exactly what he did when he got to Diamond City on this mission. Now those sunglasses were in pieces on the floor of Valentine’s office. Damn things had pinched the back of his ears anyway.

“All right,” Valentine had said after Deacon managed to convince him he wasn’t out to assassinate him (which sounded extremely suave with Deacon having to pinch his nostrils shut and wince every few words), “You don’t look like a raider, and you aren’t much of a mercenary if you are one. Who are you, and what are you doing in here?”

“Jimmy. Jimmy Fitz. I--_agh_\--I work on a farm east of here,” Deacon said, accepting the rag Valentine tossed him. He sat down heavily in the metal foldout chair in front of Valentine’s desk, tipping his head back and holding the rag beneath his nose. “Thought this was--_shit, ouch_\--where they--kept the farm tools. Boss said--”

Suddenly, Deacon felt his free hand get pulled forward. The grip was cold, finger-shaped but the wrong texture. 

“Gotta say, Jimmy, you got the cleanest fingernails I’ve ever seen on a farmhand,” Valentine said. He released Deacon’s hand. “And is that hair on your shoes? What are you growing on that farm?” 

God damn it.

Deacon moved the rag aside a little to look down. Sure enough, a few red curls clung to his shoelaces from the salon. He leaned back again, wincing as his nose throbbed.

“Let’s start with your real name, hmm?” Valentine said, leaning on the edge of his desk.

In a couple years’ time, Deacon would have a collection of aliases and disguise, and stories to go with them. He’d take tips from other agents and instructions from the manual and lessons he learned the plain old hard way and mold them all into instincts, sharp and sure. He’d lie through his teeth and smile through the pain and learn how to get away with it. But right then, caught red-handed (literally, at this point) and bankrupt of the only story he’d put together, all he could think about was how much his nose fucking _hurt_ and how much time he’d lose if he had to spend the night in jail. 

So he took a gamble. 

“Deacon. It’s Deacon,” he said. Close enough to the truth. He’d started insisting on it around HQ a few months ago. It seemed fitting, with all the recruiting. His real name was generic enough not to be conspicuous, but also generic enough that it was starting to get confusing. They had a runner, a safehouse owner, and a tourist all with variations on that theme. And besides, he just… needed the change. Wasn’t it fitting to let the name die with most of the people that knew it?

Valentine had just laughed. “Your first one was better.”

Deacon shrugged, or did the best approximation he could with one arm bent in the air. “You asked.”

“All right, what are you really here for, Deacon?”

There was an Old World phrase he’d read in a book once. _In for a penny, in for a pound_, or something like that. Not like he was going to come up with something better, and this might actually keep him out of jail. “Ever heard of the Railroad?”

Deacon crumpled the rag down to look at Valentine over the top of it. He got the impression that if Valentine were capable, he’d be squinting at him. He still managed to look suspicious. “Not much. Rumor has it they help synths. Why? Is that what you’re looking for information on? Because I haven’t--”

“No, man. I’m one of them. The Railroad,” Deacon said. He tried peeling away the rag and turned it to a cleaner spot, dabbing at his nose to see if the bleeding had stopped.

“You’re Railroad? So why would you--Adam. You’re here about Adam Patel,” Valentine said, straightening suddenly.

Deacon pulled the rag away, satisfied the bleeding seemed to have dried up. “I think everyone in Diamond City knows about Adam, whether they want to or not, thanks to Mrs. Patel. Pretty sure you could hear ‘That’s not my husband, he’s a synth!’ from Bunker Hill.” He raised his voice into a whiny falsetto that got a smirk out of Nick. He reached up as he talked, feeling along the bridge of his nose. Tender, definitely going to bruise, but the bone seemed in tact. “I probably would’ve bolted too, if I were him. Obviously, it didn’t take long for word to travel.”

“So, not hard to find out who she hired to find her _real_ husband,” Valentine said, and Deacon was utterly delighted to watch Nick use air quotes. “You’re here for info, then. I mean, you could’ve just asked. Wouldn’t even have had to pick the lock. It’s not really a secret I’m not fond of the Institute.” 

Deacon re-folded the rag and started wiping carefully at his face to clean the blood. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but that’d be the perfect cover.” 

Valentine looked at him for a moment, folding his arms. “I guess I shouldn’t be surprised you folks don’t trust easily.”

“Well, I guess we’re here now. So, Detective Valentine, _do_ you have any information on Adam Patel’s whereabouts?” Deacon said. 

“What do you want with him?” Valentine asked.

Deacon looked up in surprise, lowering the rag. He sobered immediately. “Valentine, if word got back to us about him that fast, there’s no way word hasn’t gotten back to the Institute, or isn’t at least on its way. We need to find him before they do, and get him to safety.” 

Valentine studied him for a moment, then slowly nodded. “All right, then. I don’t know where he is. But I do have a couple leads. All I really need is a story to take back to the wife. You help me get paid, I’ll help you track him down and get him out of harm’s way.” 

Deacon blinked up at him. “Throw in a stimpak and it’s a deal.”

They never looked back.

\----

As the sunlight that peeks through the boarded windows turns bronze, Deacon picks his way through the second floor apartments. One floor above, MacCready sits in the rickety chair Deacon had been using earlier. He’ll be there well past dark. Nick had gone back out to walk the perimeter, and by Deacon’s guess, he has about half an hour left on his Stealth Boy. That put them down to three. By tomorrow afternoon, Anthony and Garvey will join them, Minutemen on the march. They’ll attack at nightfall.

Rather than burn another Stealth Boy, Deacon wanders the building to stretch the ache out of his legs. Some of the doors are locked, but some stand half-open--no doubt abandoned in a rush with sirens blaring out the windows, or maybe broken open in the aftermath. 

He thinks of that night in Valentine’s office as he rifles through mostly-empty drawers and blows the dust from pantry shelves. It was probably 15 years ago now. He barely remembers what that face looked like, and isn’t that a thought he doesn’t want to dwell on right now. Instead he tries to imagine how he’d do it now, if he were handed the same case, and didn’t know Nick like he does now. Maybe he’d pull on the guard disguise and try to catch Nick in the market, act the curious gossip. Maybe he’d pose as a worried friend from out of town, desperate for news. Maybe he’d have skipped Nick altogether and gone straight to the wife, or the guards that interviewed her, and found a disguise to fool them, too. 

He wouldn’t have tried the truth. 

It’s instinct, now. So deeply ingrained. Always, always, _always_ lie. Always be someone else. It’s the only way to keep himself, and everyone around him, safe. But the times he’d had to fall back onto the truth, it’d gotten him Nick, one of his best contacts, and Anthony, the best break the Railroad had gotten since Patriot. It’d come kind of close to netting him a decent ally in MacCready. 

Maybe that’s how he could think of it. They were… allies. If he just kept things there, maybe it wouldn’t be so dangerous. Allies joked around. Allies had a rapport. But allies still had distance. 

Did that distance even matter when they might not even make it through tomorrow night? 

He walks to the next door and tries the handle. It turns, and pushes open with a loud creak that makes Deacon cringe. When he steps inside he almost jumps. There are only a couple boards nailed across the windows, not nearly enough to cover them, so it’s surprisingly bright. That’s not what surprises him. As he walks into the room, he’s greeted by two skeletons, seated at a long dining table. The scraps of clothes still clinging to the bones look pre-war, but that doesn’t always mean anything. It’s at least clear they’ve been here a long time, undisturbed. Between the two of them sits a bottle of vodka with a faded white label and a shot glass on either side. On the floor near the leg of one of the chairs, Deacon sees a rusty 10 mm handgun. Poor bastards.

He finds little but threadbare clothing in the dresser one room over, and the pantry looks empty. He’s learned not to try the fridge in places like this, if he doesn’t want the smell to knock him unconscious. So his eyes settle back on the skeletons. He purses his lips and nods to himself. He grabs the vodka bottle by the neck, and corrals the shot glasses between his fingers. Then he follows the hallway back to the stairwell. 

MacCready answers Deacon’s rhythmic knock and squints at the bottle as he stands aside. Deacon carries it over to what’s left of the apartment’s kitchen, fishing out a rag. 

“Where’d you find all that?” MacCready asks, folding his arms. The shiny new PipBoy he’d been only too happy to accept from Anthony out of the Vault 111 stash covers one wrist, MacCready’s sleeve partially rolled up to accommodate it. (Deacon had turned down the offer of one for himself. Tinker Tom would find a way to confiscate it one way or the other, and it would be one more thing to remember to take on and off between disguises. Nice as the map would be, it wasn’t really worth the dead weight.)

“Wrestled a couple skeletons for it,” Deacon says. He drifts out of the room and comes back with his canteen. “I don’t have a white flag, so… how’s a white label?” 

MacCready looks at him in confusion as Deacon begins cleaning the dust from the glasses with his canteen water. “You’re--what, apologizing?”

Deacon sets the rag down and begins prying open the bottle. “Not fond of walking into big scary shootouts with regrets.”

“So you’re tying up loose ends,” MacCready says, and Deacon thinks he hears some disappointment. He glances up to find MacCready frowning down at the floor. 

“I’m offering an olive branch,” Deacon says as he pours the vodka into one of the glasses and slides it across the counter. “You know. A truce.”

MacCready stares at the glass for a moment like it’s going to jump him. Deacon pours one for himself, and MacCready finally relents and takes the first one. “What are we drinking to?”

“To… hopefully not getting blown apart by a missile launcher tomorrow,” Deacon says. 

The corner of MacCready’s mouth twitches up. “To winning, then.”

“To winning.” 

They click the glasses together and then knock back the shots. The vodka burns sharply down the back of Deacon’s throat, enough to make his eyes water. He shakes his head, trying to swallow against the sting of it, and blindly sets the glass back on the counter. MacCready coughs a bit but looks otherwise unphased. 

“God, that shit is unpleasant,” Deacon rasps. “Want some more?”

MacCready smirks and holds out his glass. The second shot doesn’t burn quite as badly as the first. 

MacCready waves off a third, gesturing to the abandoned chair by the window. He leaves the glass on the counter and begins moving back to it, slipping a hand into his pocket. He pauses. 

“Are you… someone that smokes today?” 

Deacon sighs, but all right, he deserves that. “If you’re someone that’s offering.”

MacCready pulls the pack out of his pocket and holds it out. Deacon plucks one free, and when MacCready strikes a match, Deacon leans forward to let him light it. As MacCready waves the match out, his eyes drift up to Deacon for a moment. His expression doesn’t change, but his eyes linger, like there’s something he wants to say. But the moment passes, and he turns away, pulling the cigarette from his lips and exhaling smoke over his shoulder. He drifts back to the chair. Deacon follows, leaning an elbow on the dresser.

“I’m surprised you’re not reading,” MacCready says. He doesn’t pick up the binoculars at his feet, but he does pick up the walkie-talkie, setting it on the chair seat between his legs. It clatters a little against the PipBoy. As he leans to look out their makeshift peephole, he begins twisting the channel knob at the top. Click. Click. Click. 

“Reading?” Deacon says on the exhale. Smoke billows up around his head.

“Thought you said that’s how you liked to spend stakeouts,” MacCready says without turning.

Deacon snorts. “Sure, I’ve got _Moby Dick_ waiting in my pack.”

MacCready throws a look over his shoulder. “You brought porn on a stakeout?”

“What?” Deacon laughs, almost choking on the smoke. “No, it’s not--it’s the name of a whale, you pervert.” 

“The heck is a whale?” MacCready asks. He takes a drag, and turns the knob on the walkie a few more times, then starts turning it back around the other way. 

“It’s like this big, long--” Deacon holds his hand out, trying to approximate the size. Smoke trails after him in the air as he moves his hands.

“You’re not making this sound less like porn,” MacCready says, turning back to the window.

Deacon rolls his eyes. “It was an animal, man. It lived in the ocean.” 

“Like a fish?”

“Kind of? I don’t know, that book was boring as hell, I just skipped through to look at the pictures they shoved in every couple of chapters,” Deacon says. He taps his cigarette over the ashtray in the corner.

MacCready shakes his head. “Old World people wrote about some weird sh--crap.”

“You should try to get Anthony to explain it, see if he does any better explaining that than he did with… whatever that jello stuff was,” Deacon says. 

“Still don’t believe that was a real thing,” MacCready says.

“Tessa, this is Baker, do you copy? Over.” 

MacCready jumps and has to scramble to catch the walkie before it tumbles off his leg. 

Deacon immediately straightens. “What was that?” 

MacCready waves a hand to silence him. Some static crackles through the walkie’s speaker. “Tessa here. Go ahead, Baker. Over.”

“Got reports of muties sighted moving east from the factory. Keep an eye out and move everyone up to the roof. Over.”

“Roger that. I’ll radio back if we see them. Over.”

“Give ‘em hell if you do. Over and out.”

Deacon looks at MacCready with wide eyes. “How did you--?

“It actually worked!” MacCready cuts him off, smiling. “Holy sh--holy crap! I thought maybe if I was lucky--”

“What did you do?” Deacon asks again, stubbing out his cigarette and moving closer.

“Gunners love this kind of crap. They use walkie-talkies all the time. I figured it couldn’t hurt to try clicking through the channels, see if I caught them. They couldn’t be that different, right?” MacCready takes a quick drag. 

“No shit. That’s clever,” Deacon says, patting his shoulder. “Not that I’m happy to hear we’ve got super mutants to contend with now, too.”

“Maybe they’ll take care of the Gunners and do our job for us,” MacCready says, glancing back at him with a grin.

“While we watch from up here? Hell yeah, I’ll drink to that,” Deacon says, pushing off the dresser to go find the vodka again. 

\----

At nightfall the next night, Deacon has his back pressed to the brick wall of the Super Duper Mart across the street from the apartment building, his fingers poised over a Stealth Boy switch. A few feet away, MacCready’s climbing up a ladder wrapped in cloth strips to muffle the noise of raising it. A handful of Minutemen crouch behind an ancient truck bed parked in the street behind them--Anthony, Nick, and Garvey among them. Deacon can just make out the tips of Anthony’s boots against the concrete, catching the moonlight.

The night is quiet, but not still. A breeze rattles the dead branches in the marsh down the hill, carrying the scent of wet mud, and cooling the sweat on the back of Deacon’s neck. At least the Minutemen uniform he’d pulled on was light weight, and he’d dug out boots that didn’t pinch his heels this time. Jury’s still out on the hat. Deacon doesn’t really see what the fuss is about.

Somewhere down the street, he hears a cough. He takes a deep breath, resettling his shoulders against the wall and listening. For a moment, as he tries to stay still and wait, he feels like a kid again. If he closes his eyes, he can see the beach just outside the Point, and the glitter of the ocean in the sunlight. They weren’t supposed to swim in it. The reasons littered the sand all around them: skeletons of two-headed or double-tailed fish, along with seashells of warped shapes and strange colors. Of course, none of that stopped them from daring each other to jump in anyway.

He felt the same tight anticipation in his stomach that day that he feels now, climbing up a rickety piece of wall that jutted out of the sand and over the water. He curled his toes around the broken edge and slipped a Rad-X pill in his mouth, swallowing it dry. Then he stared down at the ocean, at the waves rolling lazily toward the beach below, at the green-brown of the water. It didn’t look so scary from up there. Behind him and below, he heard his friends start up a chant of “Jump! Jump! Jump!” He lifted his arms, sticking them straight out in the air, and the chant fell quiet. He took a slow, deep breath in.

When the frag grenade explosion finally comes, Deacon almost swears he can feel icy water crashing against his ankles.

He flips the Stealth Boy on with the blast still echoing in his ears. He turns the corner and makes his way carefully along the side of the Super Duper Mart, drifting into the dust that fills the air in the explosion’s wake, pouring into the street from the parking garage. He hears the Gunners shouting ahead of him, and as he draws close to the old market’s front entrance, he can just make out a few of them scrambling to the edge of the police station’s roof, guns drawn. A couple more wait at the blown out windows on the first floor. Deacon hovers at the corner, and waits. No one moves.

“Show yourself!” comes a shout from inside the station. It sounds vaguely like one of the voices Deacon heard on the walkie. 

Still, nothing moves.

He hears a few muffled voices, a conversation he can’t make out, and then, just as the dust settles, two of the Gunners creep outside, raising their guns and looking sharply around them. The Gunner in power armor follows. Bingo.

Deacon slips soundlessly into the street. He meets them in the center, carefully maneuvering himself behind the power armor. Before they can reach the edge of the sidewalk and pass too far out of MacCready’s sight line, Deacon reaches up and pulls as hard as he can on the fusion core. It takes a second too long of straining, long enough for the woman inside to say, “Wait, what--”

But the core pulls free, and the armor releases, gaping open at the back. Deacon bolts, past caring if his footsteps give him away now that he has his prize. He doesn’t look back when the gunshot rings out behind him. He hears something heavy hit the pavement as he rounds the corner on the far side of the apartment building, and the sickening splash of blood on stone. He doesn’t stop until he reaches the truck bed again. The Minutemen are already advancing up the street. Shouts go up from the group, and the sounds of guns cocking. 

And then, all hell breaks loose.

Switching off the Stealth Boy, Deacon climbs the ladder up to the Super Duper Mart’s lower roof amid a thunderstorm of gunfire. He keeps low as he pulls it up behind him. The explosion had sent some rubble onto one side of the roof, and MacCready crouches against it, leaning out to shoot and then reeling back again. Deacon joins him, kneeling at his side and swinging the strap of his own sniper rifle around his shoulder.

“Nice work,” MacCready calls over the din. “Got her in one.”

“Can’t remember the last time I ran that fast,” Deacon calls back. He starts to lean up over their makeshift cover when a gunshot whizzes overhead and his hat flies off, landing somewhere behind him. He ducks back down, watching it roll. When it settles, he sees a bullet hole piercing straight through the top.

“Knew those hats had to be good for something,” Deacon says. He hears MacCready snort as he leans out to fire another shot.

\----

The town comes alive quickly. They can already hear more shouting and gunfire further in as they take down the last holdouts in the police station. Anthony barks a few orders, quick and clipped, and the Minutemen scatter. Garvey leads a few up the slapdash walkway and onto the upper floor of the next building over. Nick follows a group that runs into the street and around the side of the station, headed for a back alley entrance into the main square. Anthony himself takes MacCready and Deacon toward a long board connecting the station roof to another roof across the street.

Deacon hesitates as MacCready steps onto the edge, waiting for Anthony to finish crossing before putting his weight on it. “You know, I think I just proved I’m really effective at ground level assaults--”

“There’s no time for this, just run across and don’t look down,” Anthony shouts back. The sound of gunfire cuts through any retort Deacon might have thrown back, and Anthony slides behind some sandbags lining the roof’s edge. He returns fire as a Gunner on another rooftop ahead of them ducks low.

MacCready barrels across the bridge and scrambles behind the sandbags just as another Gunner on the guard station a few rooftops over takes notice of them. Deacon bites out a curse. _Don’t look down. Right. Don’t look down, don’t look down…_ He forces himself to concentrate forward as he runs, desperately trying to ignore the way the board rattles and shakes under his feet. He ducks down with the others just as a bullet flies past his shoulder.

“For _fuck’s_ sake,” Deacon growls, fumbling his gun forward with shaking hands. “I’m going to send every last one of these assholes to hell for making me come up here.”

“That’s the spirit,” MacCready says. He darts up and lands a shot right between the eyes of the closer Gunner, letting out a breath of relief as he watches him fall backward.

“Less talking, more shooting,” Anthony snaps. His shot goes wide over the further sniper, and he curses. 

It takes a few minutes to clear the rooftops around them. Once Anthony’s satisfied no one else is coming, he leads the way to the next rickety roof-to-roof walkway, this one even more haphazard than the last. Deacon watches him barrel across, his heart racing as some of the boards shift a little with the weight, but they hold. MacCready steps up behind him. He’s two steps into a run when Deacon sees one of the planks in the middle slide dangerously to the side. 

“Wait!” he shouts, one arm rising.

MacCready twists around to look at him mid-run. “What--”

And then he drops.

Deacon scrambles forward, yelling “NO!” before he can even think twice about alerting people to their position. He’s dimly aware of Anthony shouting on the other side, but the whole of his attention narrows down to the fingers gripping the board on the edge of the roof.

“MacCready!” he cries, dropping to his knees and leaning forward. This board is, by some miracle, nailed to the roof, and MacCready clings to it, looking up at Deacon with wide-eyed panic.

“Oh god,” he croaks. “Oh god, please!”

“Cover us, Bullseye!” Deacon calls to Anthony without looking up. He’s afraid to look away for even a moment. “Hold on, Bobby. Hold on, I’ve got you.”

Deacon braces his feet and leans a little precariously to hook his arms under MacCready’s shoulders. The board bends a little under their combined weight, and Deacon does everything he can to shut out the wave of raw fear that crashes through him as it does. Gripping with all his strength, he strains back and heaves.

The weight is more than he expects, and his arms immediately ache with the effort. He grunts, heart hammering under his ribs, and feels MacCready tensing as he tries to help push himself up. A gunshot rings out close, and the sounds of a struggle filter through, but Deacon blocks it all out and just pulls, and pulls, and _pulls_.

Finally, just as Deacon fears he’s going to lose his grip from the burn in his muscles, MacCready manages to swing his knee onto the board and shove himself forward. The force knocks them both backward, and they collapse together on the flat of the roof, MacCready sprawled on top of Deacon, both of them panting frantically. 

“Are you okay?” Deacon rasps when he gets enough air back, his grip tightening around MacCready’s back. He feels MacCready’s chest heaving against his. “Bobby, Jesus, are you--”

“I’m--” MacCready gasps. He gulps in another breath, and tries again. “I’m okay. Shit, I--almost--”

“But you didn’t,” Deacon says firmly. MacCready lifts his head unsteadily, and their eyes meet over the top of Deacon’s sunglasses, knocked askew in the tumble.

Another gunshot cracks the air close by, startling them both. MacCready rolls off of Deacon and out of his grip, twisting to look over his shoulder. Anthony stands on the other side of the broken bridge, one of the Gunners dead at his feet. Blood splatters his chest plate, and an open gash splits his cheek. 

“Fuck--frick--are you all right?” MacCready calls, pushing unsteadily to his feet. Deacon sits up.

“Am _I_ all right?” Anthony says, swiping at his wound with the back of his hand. “Fuck that, are _you_?”

MacCready nods, shakily reaching over his shoulder to adjust the rifle strap that had somehow survived the tumble in place. Deacon slowly manages to stand up next to him, trying to flex the lingering ache out of his arms.

“God, Deacon, if you hadn’t--” Anthnoy starts.

He’s interrupted by the shrill scream that can only mean a missile launching somewhere ahead of them. A loud explosion follows, and a cloud of debris blasts high enough into the air to peek over the rooftops ahead. 

“Thank me later, we need to move,” Deacon says, tugging on MacCready’s coat sleeve. He points to the fire escape in the opposite corner. “Let’s try some solid ground this time.” 

MacCready’s shoulders sag with relief. He follows on Deacon’s heels.

\----

Well, it could’ve been worse.

When all is said and done (and killed and exploded), the Minutemen’s casualties are light. Lighter than the Gunners, at any rate. A scattered number of injuries--gunshot wounds and broken bones, mostly--and two men lost, of the several dozen that stormed the gates. Two. Almost three.

Deacon’s not surprised to find MacCready in what, according to the brightly painted sign out front, used to be a liquor store. The Minutemen pass back and forth through the old streets around him, collecting bodies for the pyre forming outside the western gate, picking up dropped weapons and leftover supplies, starting up a guard rotation. Anthony and Garvey had gotten swept up in the thick of it, and Deacon had caught sight of Nick heading back toward the police station. He should help, probably. But instead he found himself wandering through the street, peeking in windows and gaping holes in the wall until he spotted a familiar green hat. 

MacCready’s slumped on the floor, his back against what was once the cashier counter. He darts a glance up when Deacon climbs over what’s left of the wall, then slowly raises the bottle he’s holding in greeting. Deacon slides down onto the floor next to him. MacCready takes a long drink, then wordlessly passes the bottle over.

“You know, something tries to kill me almost every day of my life,” MacCready says as Deacon inspects the bottle’s label. Bourbon. Not what he would’ve picked to celebrate living to fight another day, but then again, he’s surprised anything was left at all. He takes a swig, and shudders as he swallows.

“I get shot at,” MacCready continues, counting off on his fingers, “by every gang in the Commonwealth, attacked by ferals, rushed by dogs, nearly exploded by mines, you fu--you freaking name it. And never once did it occur to me I might die by tripping.” He looks over at Deacon, eyes tired. “I don’t know why that’s freaking me out more than anything else.”

“It was pretty god damn freaky,” Deacon says, gripping the bottle a little tighter. He can still see the look in MacCready’s eyes as he hung there. “I should’ve--fuck. I should’ve seen it sooner.”

MacCready brow creases. “Wait, are you apologizing for _my_ clumsiness?”

“The boards looked loose. I should’ve stopped you.” Deacon takes another drink. He’s always the one with the escape. The way out. The backup plan. He’d made sure of it, after the massacre that put Wyatt in charge of the Railroad. That was one way to learn to look for the details. Lives depended on it. How long had he spent replaying Switchboard in his head, wondering if there could have been one more second of warning, one thing different that would have bought them more time? He thought of it over and over, looking for the details he missed, the little things that meant the difference between a headquarters and a tomb. And he’d done it again, missed that one moment that might have made the difference. And someone else was almost lost because of it. “Shit.” 

He feels MacCready’s eyes on him, but doesn’t look up to meet them as he passes the bottle back. Their fingers brush when MacCready reaches to take it. 

“I don’t get you sometimes,” MacCready says quietly. 

“What’s to get? I’m a guy that doesn’t want to watch his friends plummet to their deaths off rooftops.” Deacon shrugs.

MacCready’s quiet for a long moment, staring down at the bottle in his hands. “So we are friends, then?” 

Shit. He hadn’t meant to say that. Hadn’t even meant to think it. “We’re—” he starts, then falters. What, exactly? Allies? That sounded awfully flimsy, now. 

“Or is this just another role you play?” MacCready says, when Deacon doesn’t find a way to respond. “Means to an end, something like that? I can deal with that, if that’s all. Whatever. But I can’t tell which it is with you sometimes. One minute you act like I’m just the jerk that ran with the Gunners, the next we’re splitting a bottle and joking around. You just keep being different people. So which is it?” 

Lies start lining up in the back of Deacon’s throat. It’d be easy to fall back on his instincts, shrug and say something like, _You’re not much use if you’re dead, man. Just doing the neighborly thing, you know how it is._ But he’s already made the mistake of blurting out what he didn’t even realize he really thought. He feels like he did in Nick’s office all those years ago: cornered, and running out of options. The lies would be obvious, and transparent. And maybe that’s one way to push MacCready away, to just convince him Deacon would always lie. It worked with everyone else. But he usually kept his distance well enough from everyone else not to get to know them, not to learn about their childhood stint as mayor of Kidville or the son they keep quiet from everyone else or the way they like their damn razorgrain porridge. The inconvenient truth is that he likes MacCready, likes teasing him and talking with him and fighting alongside him. He likes the glimpses he keeps getting under the surface. He doesn’t _want_ to keep pushing him away.

So maybe the truth is the only thing left that will do it for him.

“I’m not the kind of friend you want,” Deacon says softly. He pushes his sunglasses up higher on the bridge of his nose. “I’m not good at the whole ‘friends’ thing. And I’m in constant danger. Which puts everyone around me in danger. So it’s better to just make sure there aren’t many people around me.” 

Out of the corner of his eye, Deacon sees MacCready look over at him. He sighs and adds, “Just cut your losses, man. You’re better off.”

“Cut my losses,” MacCready repeats flatly. Deacon just shrugs again, picking at the hem of his shirt.

MacCready takes another drink from the bottle and sets it down on his other side. “You know, I don’t take orders from people that aren’t paying me.”

Deacon looks up sharply in surprise. He opens his mouth, then slowly closes it again. MacCready just watches him intently, then shakes his head. “Come on, Deacon, you’re making this more complicated than it has to be. Some of my best friends almost get me killed on a daily basis. What makes you so special?” He gives Deacon a crooked sort of grin. “You saved my fu--freaking life. Call me crazy, but that’s a pretty good quality in a friend.”

Deacon stares at him for a moment, feeling at a loss. How can it be that simple?

“I’m going to disappoint you, Bobby,” he says, frowning.

“Yeah, probably,” he says. “And I’m going to piss you off. So, business as usual.” 

Deacon huffs out a laugh in spite of himself. He shakes his head, swallowing down against the pressure in his chest. “Well… don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

“Likewise,” MacCready says. He nudges Deacon’s shoulder. “Come on, think how happy Anthony will be if we kiss and make up.”

Deacon quirks his lips. “I didn’t know kissing was on the table.”

MacCready snorts. “Then up your game, champ.”

They look at each other for a moment, smiles slowly breaking across their faces. They both dissolve into laughter, MacCready nudging Deacon’s shoulder again. 

“All right,” MacCready says, when they regain their composure. He pushes to his feet and offers Deacon a hand. “I gotta find something better than that shi--that crap to thank you with.” He nudges the bottle with his toe.

“We’ll be lucky to find anything they didn’t drink or blast away,” Deacon says. He hesitates a moment, but then clasps MacCready’s hand, letting himself be pulled to his feet. 

“We better start looking, then.” 

Deacon watches MacCready drift into the back room. He leans for a moment on the counter, staring at the hand MacCready had held, then scrubbing both his hands over his face, under the shades. _This is a terrible idea._

“Hey, jackpot! There’s a safe back here!” 

Deacon takes a deep breath. He slowly straightens, and follows the sound of MacCready’s voice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THEY'RE FRAAANDS 
> 
> 1) I have no idea if the building I co-opted for the stakeout is actually an apartment building. It's not technically accessible in the game, so I took some creative license, complete with ambient storytelling skeletons.
> 
> 2) I don't think Nick is actually one of Deacon's contacts in canon but it just makes so much sense to me that he'd become one. A sympathetic synth operating freely in Diamond City as a detective would be such a useful source of information! So I had a little fun inventing a way for that to happen, with bonus younger Deacon still figuring out how to be a spy. If you haven't looked up pictures of him without the sunglasses, by the way, DO IT. His eyes are genuinely so striking. People have also dug into the game files to find his assigned hair color, which is in the ginger range, hence all the ginger references peppered through his memories.
> 
> Happy holidays to you all! I hope the new year brings good things. I officially finished Chapter 9 barring final edits today, so it will go up once I've finished Chapter 10. This will definitely be some time in January, I'm trying to recuperate a little from work stress over the holidays and give my brain a bit of a rest. But I have so many plans for this story and I promise despite writing at turtle speed that I am always actively working on it and am determined to reach the finish line. I know I predicted 16 chapters, but with how these keep blowing up it's definitely pushing 20 now. We'll see how it goes.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Deacon gets attacked by a hangover. There's a kid in a fridge. And Vadim has a big mouth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! I hope the New Year is treating everyone well so far. I come bearing gifts! Sooner than I expected, actually, but wondrous, benevolent beta **serenityfails** gave the green light on Chapter 10 so I am able to post today. 
> 
> I just really want to take a second to thank everyone that's been reading and leaving comments and kudos. Even if you've just been enjoying from afar without either! I don't think I can properly convey to you how much it means to me. I started this thing more to entertain myself than anything else and hoped maybe one or two other people might enjoy it. Hearing that people are really invested and even doing re-reads just means more than I can say. Thank you so, so much. It's made me excited about writing again in a way I haven't been in a long time. You all are wonderful. And though I've been working slowly, I've been working on it almost every day, which has been so good! I'm really excited for you all to see where this is going and I really hope you enjoy the ride. 
> 
> Now, enough rambling from me! On to the fic! 
> 
> Warnings for this chapter: There is a shootout in the later half of the chapter that involves some very brief graphic gore. You can skip the specifics by skipping the short paragraph starting "Get down!" and resuming at the next paragraph. Aside from that, there is canon-typical description of ghouls.

“Oh Jesus Holy Fucking Christ, I’m dying.”

“You are not dying.”

“These are the last breaths of a dying man, you insensitive prick, have some respect.”

“I wish they were your last breaths, at least I could hear myself think.”

Deacon rolls onto his side, hissing as the throbbing in his head pounds against his temples. Keeping his eyes shut, he feels blindly over his head until his fingers collide with his sunglasses. He slips them on carefully as he sits up, then blinks through the pain to find MacCready standing over his bedroll, holding out a can of purified water. 

“How are you not also dying?” Deacon groans as he accepts the can and pops the tab. He’s grateful that they at least somehow made it back to the apartment they’d been holding their stakeout in, though he has only fuzzy memories of how that involve him tripping up the stairs. Twice.

MacCready chuckles softly as he leans against the broken bed frame behind Deacon’s bedroll and watches Deacon take a few greedy gulps of water. “Well for one, I wasn’t the one that finished off an entire bottle of whiskey on my own.”

“I did not drink the _entire_ bottle, you were there too,” Deacon starts, but MacCready ignores him.

“And two, I’ve been drinking since I was six, man. It takes a lot to get me hungover.”

Deacon squints up at him, wincing at the spike of pain that lances through his head. “I mean, I probably wasn’t much older but... it was small doses when we couldn’t get milk or Nuka Cola.”

MacCready shrugs as he folds his arms. “Alcohol was the easiest thing to get our hands on, before they cleaned up the water.”

Deacon leans an elbow on the bed frame and presses the can to his forehead. The water isn’t cold, but the metal is cooler than the stale summer air trapped in the room. He narrows his eyes at the boarded windows. “What time is it?”

MacCready makes an exaggerated show of swinging his left arm to his chest and turning the dial on his PipBoy. “8:37 am,” he says.

Deacon rolls his eyes, and then immediately regrets it when the motion makes him dizzy. He grips the footboard with his free hand until the spinning stops. “You’re going to be insufferable with that thing from now on, aren’t you?”

“I’ve wanted one of these things for years,” MacCready says, idly tracing the screen. “Ever since that Vaultie mungo let me mess around with hers back in Lamplight.”

Deacon lifts his head away from the can and squints at MacCready. “The what?”

“The—you know, the _Lone Wanderer_ or whatever the heck they call her,” MacCready says, making a vague gesture.

“No, I know who you mean, what did you call her?” Deacon says.

MacCready purses his lips and his eyes dart across the room, settling on the dresser. It’s hard to tell in the dim light, but Deacon is almost positive his ears are turning red. “A, uh... a mungo. It’s...” He rubs the back of his neck. “It was our word for adult.”

Deacon immediately straightens, blinking against the sharp pain it sends through his head. His sunglasses slide a little on his nose, and he has to steady them with his free hand. “Holy shit. You—ow, _fuck_—you had your own _language_ too? What the hell, Bobby, you’ve been holding out on me.”

“We didn’t have our own language!” MacCready says defensively, shifting a little where he leans. “Just—y’know—slang.”

“Oh my god, teach me your made-up Kidopolis language right this second,” Deacon says. 

“Fu—Screw off,” MacCready grumbles, pushing off the frame to head toward the door. “Finish your dang water so we can get moving, I want to hit Diamond City before dark.”

“Sir yes sir, Mr. Mayor, sir,” Deacon says with a sloppy salute. 

MacCready flips his middle finger up as he disappears into the other room. Deacon laughs, then groans when it makes his head throb.

“Wait, why are we going to Diamond City again?” he calls, after another long sip of water.

MacCready leans his head back through the doorway. “To drop Nick off. Anthony wants us back in Sanctuary after you do… whatever it is you have to do with your people. In case the Gunners retaliate, and to test the range on those walkies. He’s gotta stay and sort this place out.”

“Right, right, I completely remember that entire conversation now,” Deacon says with a half-hearted thumbs up.

MacCready leans his shoulder on the door frame, smirking. “That’s impressive considering you were dead to the world when I had that conversation with Anthony this morning.”

“That’s what you thought. I was definitely lurking in the—” Deacon starts, then winces as the hammering in his temples intensifies for a second. His sunglasses slide down the bridge of his nose again. “Jesus, _ouch_. Is there more water left?”

MacCready rolls his eyes. “Pretty sure we would’ve heard the groaning a mile away, Captain Super Spy.” 

“Hey, I am the—_agh_—pinnacle of stealth and master of disguise,” Deacon calls as MacCready retreats back to the kitchen. He reappears at the door with another can of water.

“Does that make now a good time to tell you your shades are upside-down?” he says as he sets the can next to Deacon on the floor. 

Deacon’s hand flies up to feel the sunglasses, and he curses with another grimace, pulling them off. MacCready just laughs.

\----

It takes two more cans of water to get Deacon off the floor and through a fumbling attempt at packing. But they’re half an hour north of Quincy and well into the morning by the time his head actually starts to clear. Which, as it turns out, is worse. Because the minute his head stops pounding, it starts _thinking_.

As they follow a coastal road toward the Point, weaving in and out of the shadow of the highway, Deacon brings up the rear and loses himself in thought as he compulsively scans the horizon. He can’t remember the last time he let himself get that drunk. A drink or two is one thing. A solid buzz, even. But he never drinks enough to dull his senses, or his instincts, or his damn memory. Not to mention leaving it to someone else to get him back to his bedroll in one piece. Maybe they were friends now, sort of, but trusting MacCready like that—

A muffled cry from somewhere on the side of the road shakes Deacon out of his thoughts. “Help! Help me! Let me out!”

All three of them stop in place. Deacon automatically reaches under his pack for Deliverer, surveying their surroundings. The highway rises in pieces toward the sky far to the left of the old road they’ve been following, and beneath it sits mostly wide plains of scrubby grass. To the right sits the torn up remains of a house, or something small enough to have been one, just shredded pieces of wood jutting up from the ground like teeth. There’s junk scattered in and around the ruins: pieces of furniture, dirty tires, and an old fridge that’s wobbling just a little in the mud. Nothing to really—wait.

MacCready must see it at the same moment Deacon does, because he’s already moving into the house’s yard. He keeps his rifle in his grip, and Nick pulls out his pistol as he and Deacon follow behind. 

“Who’s there?” MacCready demands, slowing as he reaches the refrigerator.

“Oh thank god,” the fridge says. Deacon and Nick exchange a look. “My name is Billy. Please, I’ve been trapped in here for so long.”

Even smothered by the fridge door, the voice sounds young. Did some kid really trip and get himself caught in there? Then again, that was just the kind of strange and stupid ploy that might actually snare some less cautious travelers. Then it’s all “Surprise!” and raiders leaping out from behind the mountain of tires and dead branches to the side of the house. They’re still on the edge of Gunner territory, too, even if they’d dealt those fuckers a nasty blow. Deacon keeps his pistol raised.

“How’d you end up in there?” MacCready asks. He doesn’t lower his rifle either.

“I hid in here to get away from the bombs,” comes the miserable-sounding answer. Deacon almost laughs out loud. Does this actually work on people? He glances around them, looking for any flashes of movement in the rubble or behind the scrubby trees. He turns his back on the obvious bait and starts keeping his eyes on the road behind them. 

“There isn’t a handle on the inside and it’s really dark in here,” Billy the Fridge adds.

“The bombs were over two hundred years ago. You’re _that_ old?” MacCready says, sounding as skeptical as Deacon feels. Good.

“Think it’s time to walk away,” Deacon says over his shoulder. He scans the side of the road, but still nothing changes. So he risks a look back to see Nick frowning but MacCready holding up a hand.

“I don’t know how long I’ve been in here,” Billy the Fridge says. “A long time, though. A really long time. Please, I don’t want to die in here.”

“If he’d been in there since the bombs, he’d already be dead,” Deacon says quietly. “This is a setup.”

“Yeah,” Nick says hesitantly. “Mac, maybe we should—”

“We shouldn’t leave it for someone else to get trapped by, then. Right?” MacCready whispers back. It surprises Deacon enough that he actually takes his eyes off the road to stare at MacCready for a moment. He was usually the first to roll his eyes at Anthony’s little mercy missions, unless they were settlements getting attacked, or offering some kind of chest full of caps at the end. He’d been downright combative about helping the Railroad. This was… unexpectedly thoughtful. 

MacCready just raises his eyebrows, looking from Deacon to Nick. “Yeah?”

“Yeah, you’re right,” Nick says. Deacon just sighs and gives him a short nod, then turns back to the road.

“Are you still there?” the voice in the fridge whines.

“Yeah, okay, we’ll get you out,” MacCready says.

“Oh, thank you. Thank you! I don’t know how to get the door open. Maybe there’s a crow bar around, or a drill—”

Deacon glances back over his shoulder and watches MacCready lift his rifle. He shoots the handle, and it falls into the dirt with a heavy thud.

“Try it now,” MacCready says, keeping his rifle trained on the door. Deacon looks over the side of the road once more. When nothing comes leaping out of the grass, his shoulders ease a little.

He hears the refrigerator door creak open. “Agh, my legs are so _stiff_!” 

“Holy sh—crap.”

Deacon doesn’t hear any gunfire, so he turns carefully back around. His jaw just about drops. Climbing out of the fridge, looking wide-eyed up at the sky, is what looks like a ghoul child. 

“You’re seeing this too, right?” Nick tilts his head a little to murmur to Deacon. “I haven’t got a glitch in my software?”

“Not unless I do too,” Deacon says. He didn’t know they made them in fun size. He’d never heard of a child ghoul in his life.

Billy’s eyes dart all around him, moving from the ruined house to a rusted car a few feet away, to the highway in the distance. “Everything looks so different,” he says, awestruck. “What… do I do now?”

“You’ve really been in there since the bombs?” MacCready asks, finally lowering his rifle. 

Billy looks up at him, squinting in the sunlight. He lifts a hand up to shield his eyes, and then gasps, staring at the back of his hand in horror. He stumbles backward, colliding with the fridge again and nearly tumbling to the ground before MacCready reaches out to steady him. He lifts his other hand, and flips them back and forth. “What—oh god, what happened to me?”

Deacon winces. He looks over at Nick, who usually had a talent for delivering bad news delicately, but before either of them even speaks, MacCready swings his rifle onto his back and squats down on his knees, bringing him more level with the kid. When he speaks, his voice is gentler than Deacon’s ever heard it. “Don’t be scared. It happens sometimes when people get hit with a lot of radiation, like with the bombs. I know it’s a lot. But it’s probably what saved your life.” He purses his lips, watching Billy tug his sleeves up and run his fingers over the mangled skin of his arms. “People like this are called ghouls.” 

Billy drops his hands, looking at MacCready with watery eyes. “That sounds like something out of a comic book.”

“Yeah, I’m sure it does,” MacCready says, still with that careful, quiet voice. “Like… like _Astoundingly Awesome Tales_ or something, huh?”

Billy perks up a little. “Yeah. Yeah! Like the issue with the mutants.”

“Issue 4,” MacCready says, giving him a small smile.

“Yeah! _Rise of the Mutants_,” Billy says. Then he frowns a little. “Is that what I look like? Is my face all… all…” He waves a hand in a circle in front of his nose. “Scrambled?”

“No! No, not like those guys,” MacCready says. He hesitates a moment. “It just sort of… hurts your skin.” 

“It doesn’t hurt,” Billy says, looking at this hands again. “Just feels weird. So wait, you know comics? Those are still—?”

“They’re still around, if you look hard enough. I have a whole collection,” MacCready says. He gives Billy another little grin. “Grognak is my favorite.”

“I love Grognak!” Billy says. “I have the Bat Baby issue in my—” He pauses, and looks around his feet. “I guess my backpack is probably gone.”

“Must not have been as lucky as you,” MacCready says. “So how’d you end up in there?”

“I was walking home when the sirens went off. I tried to find someplace safe, like they taught us, and this was the closest place to go,” Billy says. “When everything started to shake and fall apart, I just crawled inside the fridge. When it got quiet again, I tried to get out, but there isn’t a handle on the inside.” 

“You’re one lucky kid,” Nick says. 

“Yeah, I guess,” Billy says without looking up. He traces the back of his hand again, his finger moving along a bumpy ridge of gnarled skin. “I just… I’d like to go home.” He looks up at MacCready. “Can you help me? Please?”

MacCready shoots a look over at Deacon and Nick. Deacon bites the inside of his cheek. If the kid’s home didn’t get blasted to kingdom come when the bombs fell, it was a broken ruin, like the one they were standing in now. “Kiddo—” Deacon starts.

“Where did—uh, do you live?” Nick interrupts.

Billy turns to him, and then his eyes go wide. “Are you a _robot_?”

Nick chuckles. “Not exactly. I’m what they call a synth.”

“Oh, like… like an android?” Billy says. “I read about those in a science magazine once. That’s so cool. Oh! Uh, anyway, I live in Quincy. But I don’t know if I could get there now, everything looks so different. I just—I just want to find my Mom and Dad.”

Deacon grits his teeth, catching Nick’s eye. Even if there’s anything left of the kid’s house, there’s _definitely_ nothing left of his parents. That’s going to be a tough blow for a kid who’s just had to find out he’s a ghoul and the world he knew is gone forever. Deacon almost wishes Anthony were here. At least he knows what some of that feels like.

“Maybe we should get you somewhere safe, and then—” Nick starts carefully.

“Wait, was it a house by the marsh? Right off the town square?” MacCready says.

“Kind of,” Billy says. “It’s on Briar Street. We live real close to a Super Duper Mart? And the police station is around there too.”

“Holy crap,” MacCready says. He turns to Nick and Deacon. “I think I know where he lives.”

“You do?” all three of them say at the same time.

MacCready steps closer to the others, lowering his voice and turning his back to Billy. “While I was out checking for patrols I saw a couple of ghouls in a house back behind the apartment building. I eavesdropped for awhile but they didn’t seem like they were with the Gunners, no weapons or armor or anything, so I just left them alone. It was right where the kid’s describing. I don’t want to get his hopes up, but—”

“I don’t want to hand him over to just anyone,” Nick says.

“No, of course not. If he doesn’t recognize the house, we just take him to Anthony. Quincy’s about as safe as anywhere else, now. Maybe more. We can’t just leave him, anyway.”

Deacon blinks back his surprise at how earnest MacCready sounds. He feels like he’s seeing a side of the guy he didn’t even know existed. Maybe a side he hadn’t wanted to think could exist, if he’s being honest, when he was determined to keep him at arm’s length. Talking the kid down like that, getting him to focus on something he liked, getting him to open up… like it was nothing. It’s really not the time, but Deacon feels like he’s meeting MacCready for the first time all over again, and maybe, in a way, he is. 

“Sure,” Deacon says after a moment. “Sure, yeah, let’s—yeah.”

MacCready nods, turning back to Billy. “All right, kid, let’s go take a look. If we can’t find it, there’s a safe place nearby we can take you to.” 

“Thanks, mister!” Billy says. “Thank you so much!”

“You all right to walk?” MacCready says, and Billy takes a few careful, stumbling steps forward. The stiffness in his limbs seems to ease the further he goes, and MacCready keeps pace with him, one hand hovering out from his side to catch him if he falls. Deacon and Nick trail behind them as they turn back onto the road. 

“He’s got a soft spot for kids, huh?” Nick says to Deacon, nodding toward the pair ahead of them. 

Billy cranes his neck around as he goes, chattering to MacCready as he points at the highway. MacCready smiles and nods, leaning a little toward him to respond. He looks… different. At ease, almost. 

“Looks like it,” Deacon says. “It’s… news to me.” 

Nick looks at Deacon for a moment, then smiles to himself and just keeps walking. Deacon doesn’t ask. 

\----

"It feels weird to walk in the middle of the road. There aren't any cars? No buses?" Billy says. His legs seem to be moving a little easier now as the road carries them back toward the overpass, on the edge of Quincy. Nick had drifted to the front of the line at some point while Deacon kept to the back, the three of them wordlessly keeping the kid between them.

"Not anymore," Deacon says from behind Billy. "Not really easy to get fuel now, and a lot of the roads are broken up. Most cars just rusted out over time."

Billy looks up at the overpass as the road curves toward it. "It's weird not to hear them. I keep thinking one's going to come around the corner and hit us." 

As Deacon cuts a glance over his shoulder, watching for movement behind them, he tries to picture it: the wide expanse of concrete, not cracked into uneven pieces but whole, with the yellow paint in the center still in smooth lines. He tries to imagine cars zooming back and forth across it all, a parade of bright colors, a constant roar of engines. He knows what generators sound like, and the swishing hum of water purifiers, and the buzz of the occasional appliance raised from the dead. Did cars sound like any of that? And so many all at once must have been deafening. He can’t imagine traveling like that, uncaring of the noise, of how easily he could be seen. 

"People didn't walk much, huh?" MacCready asks, and Deacon turns back around. 

"Sure they did, just not, like, long distances," Billy says. "I took the bus home from school. Or Dad came in his car, if he got off work early sometimes. I've never walked all the way home before." 

MacCready nods. "That must have been fun. I've always wanted to know what it was like, driving a car." 

"A lot faster than walking," Billy says, rubbing at his thigh a little. Deacon chuckles quietly. 

"I'd get a magenta one," MacCready says, sweeping the hand that isn't holding his rifle out in front of him. "With a lime green interior." 

"Magenta?" Billy and Deacon say at the same time. 

"Yeah. Real flashy," MacCready says. 

Billy giggles. "I've never seen one like that."

"They never come in the color you want," MacCready says with a sigh. 

"How does your house have the most boring decorating job known to man but you want a neon pink car?" Deacon says. 

MacCready glances back at him and shrugs. “I mean, not like there’s a ton of paint just lying around.”

"Hey, wait, slow down." Nick stops walking ahead of them, and Deacon and MacCready immediately freeze, trying to follow his gaze. Ahead of them, rounding the side of an old gas station sign rusting in the sun, is a man in armor that looks a lot like the kind Gunners use. Deacon immediately steps to Billy's other side just as Nick shifts in front of him. The man doesn't immediately raise a weapon, and walks almost lazily toward them. 

"Crap," MacCready mutters under his breath. Deacon spares a quick look to his periphery and sees MacCready grit his teeth. 

"Cute kid," the man says as he draws closer, his voice rough and deep. "Is he for sale?"

"Is he _what_?" Deacon snaps. 

"For sale," the man repeats, folding his arms across his chest plate. "Give ya 200 caps for him."

"No," Nick says firmly. "He's not for sale. What kind of person asks a thing like that?" 

"The kind that's just trying to make a living out here," the man says. His eyes narrow suddenly as he glances past Nick. "Well, well. MacCready. You got a lot of nerve, showing your face around here after what you did." 

Deacon doesn't move his head, but darts his eyes to the side again. MacCready raises his chin a little, shoulders square. "_You_ got a lot of nerve, Bullet, walking right up to me after what I did." 

"You don't scare me, you little punk ass," Bullet growls. "You got the drop on Winlock and Barnes, but you're in Quincy now."

"Take it you haven't gone home in a few days," MacCready says. "Hate to break it to you, but _you’re_ in Minuteman territory now. And they don't take kindly to slavers."

Bullet looks back over his shoulder toward the town in the distance, his nostrils flaring. Then he glances at each of them in turn, a scrutinizing sort of squint like he could squeeze the lie out of one of them if he just stared hard enough. Deacon puts a hand on Billy's shoulder and gently tugs him backward. The kid takes the hint and shifts behind him. 

"You want to take these odds, Bullet?" MacCready says. “Three against one?”

Bullet's jaw tightens. He takes a few steps back. "You watch your back, runt, or you'll have every Gunner in the Commonwealth on you like flies on shit." 

"Not if I shoot first," MacCready says, lifting his rifle. 

"Oh god!" Billy cries, grabbing Deacon's waist. Deacon feels the side of Billy's head press into his back. 

The cry seems to make MacCready hesitate. He doesn't lower the rifle, but he doesn't shoot. "Walk the fuck away, you son of a bitch. Don't you ever come near this kid again." 

"You'll get yours, runt," Bullet calls as he backs toward the side of the road. "Just you fucking wait." 

MacCready keeps the rifle trained on him until he's well out of sight, disappearing into the reeds on the edge of the marsh. Deacon turns to find Billy hiding his face in the back of his shirt. He lets go as Deacon moves. 

"Is—Is he gone?" Billy asks, his eyes wide and frightened as he looks up at them.

"He's gone," Nick says. "We're not going to let him hurt you. But we should get moving." He says the last with a look between Deacon and MacCready. Deacon gives him a short nod and gently guides Billy back in front of him. Nick takes the lead again as they step back onto the road, Billy close at his back, and MacCready behind him.

"Thank you," Billy says, his voice a little shaky. 

They walk in silence for a few minutes, their pace quicker now as they thread their way through the grass under the highway. Deacon keeps swiveling his head toward the marsh every few seconds, watching for the glint of armor or that stringy brown hair to reappear. Houses rise out of the reeds ahead of them, and further on, the tall shapes of Quincy’s buildings. 

"I should've shot him," MacCready murmurs, just loud enough for Deacon to hear. He's looking down at his feet, picking his way over the uneven dirt. 

"Why didn't you?" Deacon says, just as quietly. 

MacCready looks out over the marsh. He lets out a long breath, and Deacon sees his hand tighten around the barrel of his rifle. "Kid doesn't need a guy getting shot in front of him to be his first memory of this world." 

Deacon stares at the back of his head for a moment, a little taken aback. They fall into step together as the terrain grows a little rougher. After a moment, Deacon says, "Probably won't be long before he sees that anyway."

"Yeah, I know,” MacCready says. ”Let's just... get him home." 

——

“Mom? Dad?”

Billy goes barreling down the little dirt lane that leads to a crumbling wood house on the marsh’s edge. It’s one of the few that isn’t half sunk in the grubby water sloshing over the grass. The white paint is chipping and dull, the roof beginning to sag, but the house stands. And out the front door comes a ghoul woman in a faded floral print dress, a man following close behind her. She gasps and throws her arms open, catching Billy in a tight hug.

“We thought you were dead!” she sobs, pressing him close. The man at her side wraps an arm around her shoulders.

“I’ll be damned,” Deacon says, coming to a stop next to MacCready. “You were right, Bobby.”

Deacon hears a shaky intake of breath next to him. He turns his head and finds MacCready staring at the family embracing on the porch, nearly frozen in place. He watches, transfixed, as the woman gently cradles her son’s face in her hands, running her thumbs over the mangled skin stretched over his cheeks. 

Deacon frowns. “MacCready?”

MacCready’s shoulders jerk. As he blinks a few times, Deacon swears his eyes look a little glassy. He turns his head away before Deacon can look closer and clears his throat, gesturing ahead. “Yeah, yeah, after you, man.”

Deacon hesitates. He glances at the family. He can hear the ragged voice of Billy’s mother, talking softly as her hands fall to his shoulders. All three of them look up as Nick reaches the front stoop, the parents practically beaming at him as he says something Deacon can’t make out. Deacon looks back to MacCready in time to see him sniff and shift his shoulders, schooling his face blank again. 

“We going over there or what?” MacCready says, avoiding Deacon’s eyes. 

“Hold the fuck up!”

Deacon and MacCready both look up sharply. Where the dirt path diverges from the road stands Bullet, flanked by three other Gunners holding their guns in obvious view against their chests. Son of a dirty rotten bitch. They’d been so careful as they picked their way up to the neighborhood. Which meant either Bullet had Stealth Boys, or his camp was much closer than any of them expected. Deacon lifts Deliverer, gritting his teeth. 

“I want those ghouls. Especially that kid. You can either give them up peaceful like, or die trying to save them,” Bullet snarls. He sneers as his eyes fix on MacCready. “And I’m hoping like hell you’re feeling noble today. Got a lotta people that’ll be happy to see your head on a pike. Hey, no sudden moves, now!” 

Deacon risks a quick glance to the side without turning his head. He fights down a smile when he sees what it is MacCready had pulled out while Bullet was talking: the walkie-talkie. 

“Anthony, if you can hear me, SOS behind the Super Duper Mart.” 

“What the fuck was that?” growls Bullet. 

“I was feeling noble,” MacCready says, raising his rifle. Deacon trains Deliverer on one of the Gunners at Bullet’s side. 

Bullet bares his teeth. “I’ll wear your eyeballs around my neck, runt!” 

“Get down!” Deacon hears Nick shout, seconds before MacCready pulls the trigger. The shot lands cleanly in the center of Bullet’s forehead, blood and viscera showering his companions as they try to jerk back from him. His body drops with a thud onto the dirt. 

“Rest in fucking pieces,” Deacon hears MacCready murmur. Then gunfire forces them apart, and Deacon reaches back for a Stealth Boy as he scrambles behind a tree jutting out of the swampy water. 

\----

“_I’ll wear your eyeballs around my neck, my pretty_,” Deacon cackles in the closest he can get to a Wicked Witch falsetto, holding his fingers up like claws. He manages to get MacCready to smirk as they follow Nick down Diamond City’s main stairs, and he laughs in triumph. “What the hell crawled up that guy’s ass and died?” 

MacCready shakes his head. “Almost wish I’d let him live long enough to see that barrage of Minutemen come flying down the road. Would’ve been kind of satisfying to show him how hard he lost.”

“I think he got the message,” Nick says over his shoulder, strolling to a stop in front of the little tin can of a church hunched across from Publick Occurrences. It’s late enough in the evening that the soap box usually holding Piper’s kid sister stands empty. “Sounded like you’d run into him before.”

Deacon looks over in time to see MacCready’s lip curl in disgust. “Yeah, once or twice. Rubbed me the wrong way the second I met him, but there are a lot of those types in the Gunners. I kept my distance.” His scowl deepens. “Didn’t find out what he actually did for them until later. Kind of one of the reasons I left, in the end. I didn’t know that was the kind of sh—stuff they were into.”

He casts a furtive glance at Deacon, then down at his feet. Like he’s waiting for some kind of reaction. _You’d kill people, just not torture them, huh? Real noble, MacCready._ It would’ve rolled right off Deacon’s tongue a couple weeks ago. He doesn’t find himself wanting to take the potshot now. So he just says, “Good reason to walk away.” MacCready squints a little, but there’s no sarcasm in it, so he relaxes slightly and just nods.

“Well, what matters is that family can rest easy,” Nick says.

“I can’t believe they were still there,” Deacon says. “Seriously, what are the odds? One in astronomically impossible trillions?”

“That Billy survived at all in that fridge to begin with is some kind of miracle,” Nick says. He nods to one of the guards that greets him as he passes by. “Anyway, I should check in with Ellie.”

“Sure you don’t want in on a victory drink?” MacCready says. “Think we’ve earned it. And he’s buying.” He jabs a thumb toward Deacon, who glares.

“Hey!”

“You owe me after I spent the morning nursing you back to health,” MacCready says.

“Tossing cans of water at me counts as nursing now? Think you need to work on your bedside manner, Dr. MacCready,” Deacon says.

“I didn’t sign up to be your damn nursemaid in the first place, drunky,” MacCready shoots back.

“I’m not sure you ought to be drinking anything for awhile,” Nick interjects, looking at Deacon with a hint of amusement. MacCready chuckles quietly.

“Whose side are you on?” Deacon says, wrinkling his nose. “After all we’ve been through. Kick a man while he’s down, why don’t you.”

“It’s your funeral,” Nick says, shaking his head. “Anyway, I’ll pass. If Vadim tries to use me as a mechanical guinea pig for one of his moonshine batches one more time, I might actually short-circuit. Take care, boys.”

“Stay safe, Nick,” MacCready says, raising his hand in a short wave. He looks at Deacon and gives him a little grin. “I’m going to guess your next excuse is you’re low on caps, since you took dead grass as a thank you from that family.” 

Deacon squints at him, and hopes the sunglasses don’t muffle the pure irritation. “Dead grass? Seriously? They’re herbs, Bobby. Herbs that are hard as hell to find out here, and they were just growing a shitload in their kitchen like it was nothing.” 

MacCready waves his hands. “Wow, plants, so exciting and useful!” He shakes his head and turns to lead the way toward the Dugout Inn.

“You’ve really never eaten something that had actual flavor, have you?” Deacon says, keeping pace. He ignores a guard that pauses to stare at him for a second. He really ought to have changed the sunglasses when he made them stop in an alley so he could throw on a leather jacket and switch his pants for a pair he’d never worn in Diamond City. He’d slipped on a pompadour wig, too—much to MacCready’s vocal amusement—since he usually didn’t bother with wigs when he pulled on the Diamond City guard disguise. But he just had to wear a recognizable pair of sunglasses. A glance over his shoulder shows the guard just shaking his head and continuing his patrol, at least. 

“What is it with you and my choice of food? I eat what’s available,” MacCready says with a shrug, turning his torso to weave around the tables scattered outside the bar.

“All right. When we get back, I’m making us an actual meal with this ‘dead grass’ and then you’ll see,” Deacon says. 

“I’ll believe it when I see it,” MacCready laughs, pulling the door open. 

The Dugout wasn’t busy, but the din of a few conversations still drifted down the hall toward them. Vadim’s jovial laughter rose above them all, the man himself leaning into the light in front of the bar and smiling at a patron on the couch. 

Deacon didn’t make it a habit of coming here unless he had the guard disguise on. Even then, it wasn’t an easy setup to blend into. Not many places to sit that weren’t right in the open, for one. The columns and odd little counter cutting through the middle of the room offered a little privacy to the couple of tables on the other side, but it was otherwise too open, too bright, and Vadim too interested in his customers. Besides that, it just wasn’t the sort of place a lot of good intel funneled. The rampant fear of synths and ghouls and anyone else that didn’t quite fit the Diamond City image chased off a lot of his better sources, aside from Nick, who rarely came to the Dugout, and Arturo, who Deacon could catch with less attention in the marketplace. 

MacCready, it seems, was a different story.

“MacCready!” Vadim exclaims as he and Deacon approach the bar, holding his arms out at his sides. Deacon glances around quickly. A few heads turn lazily their way, but no one looks too long, and the conversation keeps flowing. He relaxes a little. 

“Hey Vadim,” MacCready says, with a smile. 

“It has been long time! Is good to see you, tovarisch,” Vadim says. He drops his hands back on the bar. “And you bring a friend!”

Deacon puts on a calculated smile, mentally relaxing his shoulders and keeping his posture open and easy. Damn, he hadn’t thought he’d need to prep MacCready on an alias. He gives Vadim a nod and opens his mouth.

“This is Will,” MacCready says, before Deacon can speak. Deacon has to physically stop himself from gaping at him. “We’re both working with Anthony on a few things.”

Vadim nods, and immediately shifts his attention back to MacCready. Well, hell, Deacon definitely owes him a drink now. He hadn’t expected MacCready to even remember Deacon relied on aliases in public, but he’d lied for him without even a second thought. Deacon’s honestly kind of impressed. Which is happening a lot today with MacCready.

“So, you still killing people with your moonshine?” MacCready says to Vadim, leaning an elbow on the bar’s edge.

Vadim laughs and reaches across the counter to clap MacCready’s shoulder. “How is Lucy? She still as beautiful as I remember?”

The shift in mood is so sharp and sudden Deacon almost feels it physically. For a brief moment, MacCready’s smile sort of freezes on his lips. Then it slowly melts away, his expression going blank. His eyes fall on Deacon and then away, settling on a yellow beer stain on the counter. 

“No,” he says, so quiet Vadim leans a little closer to hear. “She didn’t make it, Vadim.”

Deacon feels his stomach drop. They could be talking about anyone. A sister, a friend… but Deacon’s been doing this too long not to put the pieces together. He hopes he’s wrong.

“I’m sorry,” Vadim says quickly, and actually looks it, for once. “Mouth tends to be faster than brain.”

He glances at Deacon, as if Deacon might have some secret way of mending this. Deacon doesn’t even pretend to meet his gaze, just watches MacCready lean on the bar’s edge, his jaw tight. Vadim flounders for a moment, opening and closing his mouth.

“Tell you what. I give you both drinks on the house. For old times,” Vadim says, already reaching for the bottles. 

MacCready lifts his head a little. “Thanks. You were always a stand-up kind of guy, Vadim.”

Deacon does a quick survey of the room. Not exactly the sort of place to have quiet corner tables. He grabs the beer bottles and nudges MacCready with his elbow. 

“Come on,” he says quietly, nodding his head toward the other side of the room. 

MacCready pushes off from the bar, mumbling some sort of goodbye to Vadim as he trails after Deacon. Deacon finds the most secluded table he can, which isn’t saying much. But it’s out of the light and off to the side, and no one else is sitting close. Deacon sets the bottles down and slides onto the chair, one of many obviously lifted from the stands outside. MacCready slumps down across from him. He stares at his bottle for a moment, then grabs the neck and takes a long drink.

“I won’t ask,” Deacon says. “If you don’t want me to.” 

MacCready drops the bottle back on the table, swallowing heavily. “You’ll find out one way or another.” 

Deacon shakes his head. “Not if I don’t go looking.” 

MacCready finally raises his eyes at that. He frowns at Deacon for a moment, and Deacon stays still, letting himself be scrutinized. He means it, is the thing. Less out of consideration, really, and more because he’s not honestly sure he wants to know. He’s not sure he wants to hold a piece of someone like that, even if they _are_ friends. That’s a heavy thing for someone like him to hold onto. 

After a moment, MacCready’s shoulders drop. He looks away again. “You really wouldn’t, would you.”

“No.” 

MacCready picks at his bottle’s label with one bitten-down fingernail. He sighs. “Just do it.”

“Are you sure?” Deacon says. He wraps both hands around his own bottle to keep them still, MacCready’s nervous energy making him want to fidget. MacCready nods without looking at him.

Deacon takes a deep breath. “Who was she?” 

“My wife.”

The label rips, and Deacon’s chest suddenly feels too tight. He hadn’t wanted to be right, for once. Too close. Shit. He takes a drink, more to forestall the next inevitable question than anything else. “What happened?”

“We were on the road, traveling back through DC. My son, Duncan, was barely a year old, and that slowed us down, so we ended up having to improvise shelter one night. We ducked into a metro station. It’s uh…” MacCready lifts his finger from where he’s nearly picked the label in half, circling it a little in the air. “A subway… train station. Thing.” 

Deacon nods. “I saw them when I was there.”

“Right. Anyway, we did a sweep, and it looked empty. We thought we’d be all right for a few hours, get some sleep, start back up at dawn,” MacCready says. “We didn’t go digging into the tunnels. So we didn’t know they were full of ferals.” 

Deacon sucks in a sharp breath. MacCready’s lips twist into a frown. “Yeah, you can guess the rest. They were on her before I could even fire a shot. Ripped her apart right in front of me. There was nothing I could do.”

“Son of a bitch,” Deacon whispers, his jaw tightening. Too close. _Too close_. 

MacCready nods distantly. “I still don’t really know how I made it. It’s a blur. It was pure, stupid luck that I happened to be holding Duncan when they hit, or he’d be gone too.” He pulls his hand away from the bottle and presses it over his eyes. “Shit. Crap. This never gets easier to tell.” 

“I’m… really sorry, man,” Deacon says. 

MacCready nods again. He drops his hand, and takes another drink before pulling the peeled label off completely. “You can keep going, I know the next question.” 

Deacon purses his lips. “I don’t have to—”

“Just get it over with.” 

Deacon shifts a little on the chair, the wood digging uncomfortably into his thighs. He takes another drink himself, a vain attempt to soothe the ache in his chest. “Is Duncan okay?” 

MacCready glances up, looking a little startled. “That’s… not how I expected you to ask that.” 

“Good to know I can still surprise you,” Deacon says, trying to give him a small smile. The corner of MacCready’s mouth twitches up, at least. Deacon adds, “‘What brought you here’ was next on the list, if that’s easier.” 

“It’s…” MacCready gestures with his fingers. “It’s kind of—no, not kind of. It _is_ connected.”

“Okay,” Deacon says.

“A few months back, Duncan got sick,” MacCready says. He looks pained. “I don’t know what it is. No one does. One minute he was playing in the fields outside our farm and the next… he got a fever and these blue boils started popping up all over his body. When I left, he was almost too weak to walk.” 

His hand goes tight around the beer bottle. “Every doctor I talked to was worthless. They’d never even heard of the disease. And I ran out of caps trying. With the Brotherhood all over the Wasteland, my options were limited, and the farm wasn’t going to cut it. He was too weak to travel, so… I left him with some friends, and came here.” 

Deacon watches his face. And it clicks. “That’s why you joined the Gunners. Caps for more doctors.” 

“Yeah. I came expecting caravan jobs, I’d done those back and forth before. But the Gunners were recruiting. It was good money, for awhile, but…” MacCready sighs, compulsively tugging his hat a little lower on his forehead. “Look, you weren’t wrong, okay? It was a stupid decision. They were ruthless, killed anything that got in their way. Enslaved people, apparently. And I get it, MacCready the Bloodthirsty Killer finally gets a conscience, blah blah, go ahead and roast me.” He turns his head, almost like he’s bracing for a punch to the jaw. 

Deacon sits back. “I—” He fumbles. He wants to bite his lip, or drum his fingers on the table, the nervous urges he’s so carefully schooled himself out of crawling under his skin when all his words fail him. “That—wasn’t fair. Any of what I said. I didn’t know.” 

He winces. Of course he didn’t know. Didn’t really mean he had to go hurling insults at every turn. _It wasn’t about you,_ he doesn’t say. _You reminded me so much of…_ He can’t even finish it in his own head, just looks at his distorted reflection in the brown glass of the bottle and tries not to scowl at it. 

“I was an asshole,” he says instead. “I’m sorry.”

MacCready shrugs one shoulder, but he does turn his head back around. “I mean, so was I. And I didn’t exactly give you a reason not to be. It just—it smarts, because I’ve been trying so hard to—” He cuts himself off, looking unsure. Then he shuts his eyes. “You asked me once, why I try not to swear? I made Duncan a promise, before I left. That I’d clean up my act. Be a better person. So I’ve been… trying.” He shakes his head. “I know, real rich when the first thing I did when the chips were down is join a gang and go back to being a mercenary.” 

Deacon frowns. He realizes he’s bouncing his knee, and reaches a hand down to stop it. “You… did what you had to do. And I don’t have much room to judge you for that, despite the things I said. It means something that you even cared enough to make that promise.”

“Easy for you to say,” MacCready says, taking another swig of beer. “You’ve spent your life on a moral crusade for good, or whatever.”

Deacon flinches before he can stop himself. He tries to hide it by shifting on the chair again, but MacCready’s eyes linger on him for a few seconds, enough for Deacon to know he caught it. Damn it. “I wasn’t always in the, uh, shipping business. We’ve all got our shit. ‘Being a better person,’ or hell, even figuring out what that means, isn’t something that happens overnight.”

MacCready squints at him for a moment. Oh god, he’s going to ask. Deacon starts reaching for a story, starts filing through all the possible lies he could throw out to explain that little slip. And then hates himself for it. Here MacCready is pouring his heart out and Deacon can’t even begin to return the favor with a little honesty? But the thought of trying, of pulling that story out of the dirt he’d buried it in years and years ago, of letting someone else see the graveyard of his mistakes, makes the panic start rising in his chest. 

_Moral crusade for good._ Fuck. 

But MacCready just takes another long pull from the bottle instead. Deacon keeps bracing for it to come, but when MacCready finally speaks again, he just says, “I guess you’ve got a point. I don’t know. Anyway, now you’ve got the whole sob story. God, I need a smoke.” He starts fishing through his coat pocket.

“For what it’s worth,” Deacon says, waving the pack away when MacCready offers it, “I’m sorry. No one should have to go through something like that.” 

“Thanks,” MacCready says quietly. He places the cigarette between his lips and pulls out a matchbook. 

“Explains why you’re, like, the Kid Whisperer,” Deacon says. MacCready furrows his brow at him as he inhales. 

“What does that mean?” he says.

“Y’know, you just… have a way with them. Like Billy,” Deacon says. “You just knew what to say.” 

MacCready shrugs, smoke curling up from his lips. “I mean, you just talk to them like anyone else. You make it sound like I solved some kind of puzzle.” 

Deacon shrugs. “I don’t know, I guess I’m rarely around kids.” He swallows down the old sting of that one with another sip of beer. “Anyway, I—I hope you get what you need. For Duncan.” 

MacCready looks up at him. “I actually already did. Just… waiting for things to line up.” He frowns, and sounds the slightest bit bitter as he adds, “Hopefully sooner rather than later.”

“Yeah?” Deacon says.

MacCready takes another drag. “I ran into this guy a while back. His partner had the same disease Duncan does. I thought he was bullsh—uh, wasting my time, at first, but then he mentioned blue boils. Turns out they’d found this place that might have a cure, an Old World medical research facility. Even got the security codes for it and everything. The guy died before they could reach the place, but I got him to sell me the information. Anthony agreed to help me out.” 

Deacon’s eyes widen. “Well, shit, that’s great.” Then realization hits. “Wait. Was that where you were asking to go, when we were heading for Nahant?”

MacCready pulls an ashtray from the far side of the table over in front of him and taps his cigarette on the rim. “Yeah. Not that—I mean I wasn’t trying to force you into it, too, at the time. I figured you’d wait somewhere—” 

“Nah, I would’ve helped,” Deacon says. 

MacCready’s eyes dart up to him. “Seriously?”

“Yeah seriously,” Deacon says. “What, I’ll pull you off the edge of a building but I won’t help get your son some medicine? I have it on good authority we’re friends now, so.”

MacCready looks stunned. “I mean, it’s not just a matter of waltzing inside and grabbing what I need. It’s locked up by a security system, and when I tried to get near it on my own, the outside was crawling with ferals.” 

“We’ve taken on ferals before,” Deacon says, with a little smirk. 

“A few shambling corpses in a basement is a lot different than—”

“Not the Manor,” Deacon says. “The highway tunnel. During the storm, remember?”

MacCready stops short. “Oh. Right, that.” 

“So what’s a few more?” Deacon shrugs. 

“I never did—thank you for that,” MacCready says. 

“What, for missing miserably and barely getting a shot in edgewise?” Deacon says with a chuckle.

“No, for… talking me down,” MacCready says, gesturing a little with the cigarette and leaving a ring of smoke between them. 

“Eh, guess my big mouth is good for something every now and again,” Deacon says. He smiles wryly, trying not to think of MacCready wide-eyed and shaking in the dark, clinging to his guns.

MacCready reaches for his beer with his free hand and downs the last of it. “Anyway, that was… a lot.”

Deacon snorts. “Yeah. Thanks for, uh, you know. Telling me.”

“Thanks for listening. Can we get some food now, or something? I’m starving.” 

Relief floods Deacon as the subject changes. MacCready’s not wrong, it was a lot. And that he trusted Deacon enough to tell him was a lot. And that he saw Deacon as some kind of… paragon of good was a _hell_ of a lot. A lot more than Deacon wants to examine with only half a beer in him, anyway. 

“Yeah, food, please. Just not from here,” Deacon says. “Vadim wouldn’t know a tato from a doorknob, and the last time I tried to eat his house special I was sick for two days.” 

“Takahashi’s it is,” MacCready says, standing. “You’re still buying.” 

“I already promised to cook you a meal, that’s not thanks enough?” Deacon says, pushing the chair back. It drags awkwardly on the carpet. 

“You talk a lot of sh—crap about other people’s cooking but I’m willing to bet you don’t know the first thing about it,” MacCready says, taking another drag as he moves toward the door. 

“Oh, challenge accepted,” Deacon says. “I’ll show you what dead grass can do.” 

MacCready laughs. He waves to Vadim as they pass back into the hallway, and out into the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WE GOT BACKSTORY, FOLKS! Anyway, notes:
> 
> 1) Lifted a lot of facts straight out of the game for this one. Backstory, obviously, but also MacCready does make a comment about starting drinking at age six. I found a way to shoehorn that magenta car comment back in because it just cracks me up every time I hear it in the game. The conversation with Vadim is also in the game, though it's only ever triggered once for me. I've never gotten the conversation he has with Nick, but apparently he actually does try to use him as a test for his moonshine.
> 
> 2) So I know MacCready's reaction to the Kid in a Fridge quest in the game is drastically different. That kind of never made sense to me that he grumbles about it even though he's like all in favor of helping families? And anyway he's got some character progression here so. I also just really wanted to expand Billy's whole reaction to everything because like... waking up as a ghoul really warrants a much bigger reaction to me, I can't even imagine how frightening that would be for a kid. 
> 
> 3) Thought it would be that much more of a gut punch if MacCready actually knew Bullet. Because I live for drama.
> 
> 4) Undeservedly proud of myself that I didn't even have to google to know Wizard of Oz came out far enough back that it would have existed before the bombs fell and Deacon could believably have watched it in the library. So that's my head canon. I _did_ have to google whether "Kid Whisperer" would have been an existing reference, and apparently that's been a term since the 1500s, so I learned a thing.
> 
> 5) This is my world now so herbs still exist, even if they are rare and hard to grow or at least hard to find. I don't know, I really try to stay as true to canon as possible but I just can't believe that the only growable food that still exists is limited to the in-game options. This is like the one place I'm allowing myself some breathing room in the canon lol.
> 
> 6) Keep forgetting to mention I'm kind of treating Deacon like a couple people I know in that they can actually take or leave smoking, have the occasional cigarette and then not smoke for months. I think he's the type that has vices but not addictions, if that makes sense? Totally just my personal head canon, not arguing for that being true or anything.
> 
> This chapter makes this fic officially the longest thing I've ever written, so that's pretty cool. Chapter 10 is finished, it will go up as soon as I have a draft for Chapter 11. Apologies that updates have been more like once a month lately, work is crazy right now and taking up a lot of my energy, but even if I only get like a paragraph in a day, I promise progress is being made. We are definitely heading toward the 20 chapter range at this point, we'll see how it goes.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Deacon keeps his promise, cooks a meal, and realizes what it means.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Valentine's Day, friends. Hope you enjoy this little present. I've been affectionately referring to it as the "Beauty and the Beast snow montage" chapter. I was absolutely determined to get it done in time. Apologies that it's a little shorter than usual. The next chapter is a monster and but this was the most logical place to break them up. Endless thanks to **serenity-fails** for the beta.
> 
> Warnings for this chapter: The dream in the very beginning has some images of blood, corpses, and very mild gore. You can skip to "Deacon wakes with a shout" without missing anything major for the plot.

He dreams of a field.

He feels the dirt under his palms where he kneels, cool and wet. Not with water. He lifts his hands, and they’re sticky, and stained red. Red with mud, red with…

He looks down the long line of corn stalks but he doesn’t have to look far. Bodies sprawl between the broken stalks, faces that look familiar. Laying where they fell, unarranged, limp and pale in the sun.

He stands on shaking legs and walks toward them across the dirt, the leaves of the corn stalks brushing his shoulders as he goes. There’s a barn in the distance. It rises a faded, dirty red above the field. Red and red and red. When he walks closer, he sees smoke above the roof. He sees flames licking the corners, the painted wood charring black. He looks down, and there are still bodies on the ground, the faces still familiar. But not the same.

He hears a voice, shrill and wild. It undulates like the smoke blowing into the sky, rising and falling. Slowly, he hears a shape in it. A word. Just the one. Over and over and over.

His name.

A hard tug on his pants near his ankle tears his eyes from the smoke. He looks down, and a woman sprawls at his feet, her bloodless fingers curled in the hem of his pants. The voice comes again, loud in his ears: his name, his name, his name. She looks up at him, her matted, dark hair falling back. Her face, half-rotten, sparks like a live wire.

Deacon wakes with a shout. His whole body is cold with sweat, his lungs nevertheless burning as he gasps for air. He blinks into focus the blanket half-tossed from his legs, pale in the darkness. Pale, and clinging to one ankle. He kicks it off with a startled cry, wrenching his legs up toward his chest. He scrambles back until his shoulders hit the headboard.

“Deacon?”

He gasps again, jerking his head up to see someone standing a few steps over the threshold of his bedroom door. His bedroom. In Sanctuary. He stares at the face until he recognizes some of the features traced by the dim street light coming in through his window. A little of the tension bleeds from his shoulders as he realizes it’s just MacCready. No hat, and no coat, and his hair is sticking up a little on one side, but it’s him.

“Just a dream, man,” MacCready says softly. He takes a couple of steps forward until he’s standing at the foot of Deacon’s bed.

Deacon nods a few too many times. He’s still panting for breath, but he slowly lets his muscles unlock, and feels the ache of holding them taut bloom across his limbs. He leans his head back against the headboard. He can feel his t-shirt sticking to his skin in places, damp with sweat.

“You okay?” MacCready asks when Deacon doesn’t say anything else. He moves closer, reaching toward the nightstand. Out of the corner of his eye, Deacon sees him grab the can of water sitting there and hold it out. Deacon tries to keep his hands from shaking as he accepts it. He takes a few long gulps.

“I get them too,” MacCready says, still quiet. Deacon looks up at him. He draws his knees up higher, holding the can against his stomach. He motions vaguely, but MacCready seems to catch the meaning and sits down on the edge of the bed. A square of light from the window stretches up his arm and across his face. He looks younger, somehow, without the hat, or the bulk of the coat and the armor beneath surrounding his chest.

“I’m sorry,” Deacon says, his voice a croak. 

MacCready gives him a half-hearted shrug. “I’m sure we’ve both seen a lot of sh—uh, crap.”

Deacon huffs out a hollow sort of laugh. “Not much else to see out there.”

Deacon sees the corner of MacCready’s mouth twitch up. A moment of silence passes, and then he asks, “Did you want to… talk it out?”

Deacon shakes his head. “I want to forget it ever happened.”

MacCready studies him for a moment, then nods. His eyes drop to Deacon’s feet. “Yeah, I know the feeling.”

“What time is it?” Deacon asks, more to break the weird sort of hush between them than out of actual curiosity. He turns to set the can of water back on the nightstand.

“I didn’t check before I got up,” MacCready says. He looks to the window. “Still dark, so… maybe three? Four?”

“You took off your magic bracelet to sleep? Damn, I owe Nick ten caps.” The quip is weak and his voice is still rough, but MacCready gives him a good-natured eye roll anyway. Deacon tries not to dwell on the fact that MacCready heard him crying out and just came running without a second thought. It was probably more instinct than anything else.

After a moment, Deacon sighs and rolls to sit on the edge of the bed next to MacCready. “Sorry for, uh—you know. Waking you up.”

“It’s not a big deal,” MacCready says, scratching absently at the back of his head. Deacon’s reminded of the way he looked standing in Anthony’s kitchen after Anthony thanked him for helping rescue those settlers. And again when Carol, the ghoul lady in Quincy, threw her arms around his neck after they killed the slavers. Awkward, and a little uncomfortable, and probably flushing a bit around the ears, though even the streetlight isn’t enough to show it. MacCready doesn’t know what to do with apologies anymore than with gratitude. Probably not used to much of either. Interesting.

“Like I said,” MacCready adds, dropping his hand back into his lap, “I know how it goes.”

Deacon glances away. Yeah, apparently he does. Deacon hasn’t really let himself unpack that since they got back from Diamond City yesterday. The same kind of violent loss between them; different paths to the same place. The same hurt. He can imagine the horrors MacCready dreams of. He knows the shape they might take in the dark, now. What a heavy thing to know about someone. 

He’s used to hearing people gasp awake back at HQ. He’s used to ducking a punch if he’s sleeping too close. He’s no stranger to that kind of wake up call himself. He can take a guess what haunts some of them. He knows the ones that made it out of Switchboard or the last safehouse raid or came back bleeding from a run. He knew the ones that made it out of the Beast, and out of the Farm, HQ after HQ. Everyone’s got a tragedy, or they’ll get one. The glamorous door prize for joining the Railroad. 

But he doesn’t ask, when the nightmares come. They don’t offer, and he doesn’t offer, and the ghosts live in the shadows. And the distance makes it easier. 

Distance. Yeah, he needs a little… distance. He scrubs his hand over his face and sighs. He glances at MacCready. “You should get some sleep. Long day of—securing the settlement ahead of you, I’m sure.”

MacCready snorts. “Yeah, really need my beauty sleep for that.” 

“Hard to look menacing with bags under your eyes, Bobby,” Deacon says. 

MacCready chuckles, standing and stretching. He moves to the door. At the threshold he pauses, looking back at Deacon like he wants to say something else. But he just pats the door frame a couple times and mumbles, “Night, then.”

Deacon raises his hand in a tired wave. MacCready pulls the door closed, and Deacon flops back on the mattress, staring at the ceiling. The silence is a lot heavier when he’s alone. 

\----

Where do you fit a friend in a life like Deacon’s? How do you hold their hurts, their secrets, when you can barely hold your own? When you can’t offer them in return? 

He starts in the market.

Or what passes for one, at any rate. They’d converted the old house nearest Sanctuary’s front gate into a trading post. Salvaged canned goods, Old World cleaning supplies, rescued tools, and a whole host of random curiosities plucked from the dregs of toppled buildings fill the shelves inside. Outside, rusty folding tables line the old car port, bowing a little under the weight of the crates and buckets sitting atop them. Produce fills each container, fresh from the fields. Deacon finds himself alone among them. Those of the town that aren’t tending the fields or running their shops are split between building projects, some hammering at the barracks over at Red Rocket, some helping MacCready finish the guard wall up around the Vault.

Deacon surveys the array of makeshift containers. He walks casually across the cement, peeking in each. The carport roof shrouds them all in shade, but there’s hardly even a breeze to cut the humidity, and the syrupy smell of mutfruit and melon hangs heavily in the air. Strange that it should feel familiar, so many years removed from his farming days. He stops when he reaches the crate of melons, and reaches in with both hands. The skin is cool against his palms, even in the heat. He lifts it slowly to his nose and shuts his eyes beneath his sunglasses. The moment the smell hits him, deep and sweet, he’s no longer standing in a makeshift market, but kneeling in a field, so vivid he can almost feel the dirt against his shins. 

“Get close, right at the stem, see? No, closer.” He hears Barbara’s voice, clear and strong, in his memory. He remembers looking back at her over his shoulder from where he knelt on the ground, and seeing the sunlight circling her head like a halo. She was pointing with one hand and holding her long hair back with the other. 

“You’re just trying to get a good look at my ass.” He’d smirked at her as she rolled her eyes. (Brown, such a warm brown, like cherry wood when the light hit them just right.)

He remembers the streak of dirt along her forearm, dark against her olive skin. Why does he remember that? “_You’re_ an ass. Shut up and put your back into it.” 

“Now where have I heard that before?” 

The echo of her laughter in his head makes his chest ache. He’d loved the way she laughed, full and bright and loud. He’d say the stupidest things just to hear it. 

“Come on, pay attention, or we’ll be here all day. Lift it up to your nose. Careful not to break the stem. If it’s ripe, it’ll smell sweet, right there.” 

Deacon takes a shaky breath and pulls the melon away from his face. He has to lean his elbows on the crate for a moment, closing his eyes. He’s suddenly grateful the rest of the carport is empty. 

_Come on. Focus._ He lifts the melon out of the crate and drops it into the bucket he’d found in MacCready’s kitchen. He drags it over to another crate, this one full of anemic-looking tatoes. He rolls a few of the top ones out of the way until he finds a pair more red than orange. Then, sitting in what was once an old tool box, he picks through the first weak harvest of onions, small but workable. 

It’s not the kind of prized produce he’d expect from the more established farms further east, like the Slog, or the Finches. The fields themselves are improvised out of backyards and family gardens, haphazard and rough, tended by people who are learning as they go. But out sprout the corn stalks and tato vines all the same. He wonders, and wishes he didn’t, what Barbara would think of them. If she’d have them flourishing in no time, talking to the farm hands with that patient teacher’s voice of hers. 

He fills his bucket, piling a corn cob on top of the onions and tatoes, and grunting as he lifts it all onto the counter inside the old house. The rest of his caps go to Trashcan Carla, who perches on a metal folding chair under a faded awning in the grass next to the house, smoking. She gives him a knowing little grin when he asks if she’s been through Greentop recently, and drops a few round little hot peppers into his hands. A slab of salted brahmin meat and some brahmin milk cheese top off the pile, and then it’s a slow walk back up the road to MacCready’s house, where the masa flour he’d haggled for with Myrna before they left Diamond City waits on the counter. 

\----

His hands fit to the dough like the pieces of a puzzle sliding together. The motions come like instinct: kneading, pressing, rolling smooth. She’d have done it in half the time. She’d have had perfect little balls lined up on the cutting board. His sag a bit where they sit, and spread into lopsided circles when they’re rolled out and pressed. But they fry up into a neat little stack of tortillas all the same. Only Deacon will know the difference.

He lays the herbs out next: cuttings of oregano leaves, little branches of cilantro, and handful of cumin seeds already wrestled from their pods. Basil leaves hang to dry from the open framework of the ceiling behind him, along with long stalks of thyme. Arrayed around the counter sits the produce from the market. He fishes a cutting knife out of the third drawer he tries, and sets to work.

Barbara used to tell him stories while they cooked. She’d teach him to fry the tortillas or grind down the cumin seeds, or put him to work seeding peppers and cutting tatoes, and she’d tell him stories. She’d laugh about the overturned crate she used to stand on in her father’s kitchen, or the memory of his knobby hands next to hers on the rolling pin. She’d tell him how she tossed melon into the salsa bowl with all the rest by accident once, and they started making it that way every time. Deacon’s knife stills against the grain of the onion he’s holding as he wonders, for the first time, how many of those memories were real. Was there really a little girl wobbling on a crate, kneading dough? How would the Institute have known—no, it’s not worth thinking about. 

He cuts the rest and stirs it all into salsa in a bowl he finds in the cupboard on the wall. He’s surprised MacCready has much in the way of dishes and silverware, beyond a few pots and bowls. Much as Deacon enjoys taking the piss out of him about the box meals, that was about the extent of his own cooking skills when he met Barbara. His parents taught him simple ways to cook whatever meat was available, or how to throw together a slapdash, bland stew—the barest skills to get by. Barbara knew how to make food like it was some kind of magic, how to throw in herbs and things Deacon had never heard of and make food as simple and boring as bloatfly meat or mirelurk cakes into something to savor. And how to turn around and teach even a dumbass like him how to do it, too. 

He’s halfway through frying the meat when the front door swings open. MacCready trudges inside in a sweat-soaked t-shirt, pulling his hat off and scrubbing his damp forehead with the back of his hand. He stops short as the door closes behind him. His eyes fall on the pan, sizzling on the woodfire stove, then on Deacon, who quirks his lips at him and then goes back to stirring. MacCready takes a deep breath through his nose.

“Holy shit,” he says. It actually takes him long enough to stumble into correcting himself that Deacon looks up again. “Uh. Crap, holy crap. That smells… whoa.”

“If I got a swear out of you, it’s either really good or really bad,” Deacon says with a chuckle.

“Good, definitely—uh, good. What even is all this?” MacCready moves toward the counter. Deacon spares a glance over his shoulder to see MacCready leaning to look into the bowl of salsa.

“Never had tacos before?” Deacon says.

“What’s a taco?” MacCready looks up from the bowl, a few strands of damp hair falling into his face with the motion.

Deacon smiles. “The best use of dead grass you’ll ever see.”

\----

“So,” Deacon says. He folds his hands over his empty plate and watches MacCready spoon salsa onto his fourth taco. “Ready to admit you were wrong?” 

“They’re okay, I guess,” MacCready says, not even bothering to hide his grin as he looks up at Deacon.

“Just okay? Well, I can admit defeat, I’ll just get rid of this—” He reaches over to take the bowl of salsa. MacCready grabs his wrist, lightning fast, nearly dropping his taco as he does. Their eyes meet over the top of Deacon’s sunglasses, and MacCready breaks into a smirk. Deacon laughs and sits back.

MacCready bites into his taco and closes his eyes for a moment as he chews. Deacon rests his cheek against his fist and watches, oddly fascinated by the naked delight on MacCready’s face. And maybe a little proud of himself for putting it there, though that flash of pride fades into something more like sadness when his eyes fall on the salsa bowl again. 

“Where did you learn to make this?” MacCready asks, opening his eyes. He leans down to take another bite.

Deacon comes back to himself and straightens. “From a travelling merchant that came through Bunker Hill once. He sold me this beat up Old World recipe book on the condition I swore never to reveal the secret ingredient. The minute I turned my back after I handed him my caps, he just—_poof_—vanished.” He makes a little flourish with his hands. “Right into thin air.”

MacCready rolls his eyes, setting his taco down. “Come on, seriously. You don’t just throw this together from an old recipe and a good guess.” 

“That’s actually how a lot of cooking works, Mr. Bland-Crap Mac and Cheese,” Deacon snorts. “Get it? Because _Mac_ and—”

“Yeah, hilarious,” MacCready says, giving him a skeptical look. “I liked Carl the Cram-Juggling Poet better.”

Deacon opens his mouth and then looks down, breathing out a little laugh. Yeah, all right, MacCready has him cornered. It was a weak lie, and Deacon hadn’t honestly expected him to believe it. He’d invited the question, hadn’t he, in the end? By doing this? 

His smile fades as he tries to settle on a better answer. And as he considers it, he lands on the real answer with a sudden unease that gradually spreads through his chest like oil through water. The reason he’d done this, gone to all this trouble, was that this was the only part of himself—of his past—he could safely share, in return for MacCready opening up back in Diamond City. Possibly more alarming: there was some part of him, some part Deacon hadn’t even known was there, that _wanted_ to share all of this. That carried his feet down to the market long before his instincts had the chance to catch up.

That… hadn’t been part of the plan.

MacCready clears his throat and Deacon realizes he’s just been staring down at his own plate without speaking. He jerks his eyes up and finds MacCready watching him. A thoughtful look this time, not the scrutinizing squint he gives when he thinks Deacon has an angle. He lifts what remains of his taco and gives Deacon a small smile. “Thanks for this, anyway.”

“Sure,” Deacon finally chokes out, because _say something you idiot and stop making it weird._ “Anything to elevate your culinary taste.”

MacCready snorts, shaking his head. “All you’re really elevating is my expectations. I’m going to be wanting this kind of ‘culinary taste’ all the time now.”

“Looks like it’s time you learned how to cook then,” Deacon says, the corner of his mouth twitching up.

MacCready just laughs and pops the last bite of the taco into his mouth. He sits back, slinging an arm over the back of his chair as he chews, looking like he’s savoring it. Deacon smiles faintly. It’s a good look on him.

That thought sobers him as quickly as it comes. He stands and grabs his plate, carrying it over to the defunct sink at the end of the counter. A bucket of water from the purifier sits on the floor next to the counter. Deacon scoops out a cupful and grabs the rag sitting on the edge. Okay. Breathe. It’s not that big of a deal. So he opened up a little. In a way MacCready probably didn’t even pick up on. And so he’d liked doing it, and liked the way it made MacCready smile. It’s fine. It doesn’t have to mean anything.

It doesn’t.

“So when is Anthony supposed to be back?” he asks as he scrubs the plate in the sink, because he needs to talk about anything the fuck else right now. 

MacCready twists around in his chair. “A few days, I guess. Depends how long it takes to settle things in Quincy. And if anything—comes up on the way home.” 

Deacon doesn’t miss the mid-sentence hesitation. He nods, setting the plate aside and reaching for the pan left on the stove. “And when he comes back, think his schedule will finally be clear?” 

“I guess, if no other towns desperately need clearing out, or—” MacCready stops, closing his eyes and wincing. “That… came out wrong.”

Deacon raises his eyebrows a little but keeps scrubbing. “You can be honest, man. I know how you felt about Quincy. And given that it almost got you—uh, that you almost fell off a building, I can’t really blame you.” 

“That’s… look, it wasn’t a terrible plan, in the end, even I can admit that. Taking the town made sense for the Minutemen and it’ll be better for, you know, people like that ghoul family,” MacCready says. He sounds a little stiff as he says it. 

“But?” Deacon says, eyeing MacCready uncertainly. 

MacCready sighs and darts his eyes to the side. Then he grabs his empty plate and stands, handing it to Deacon and leaning on the counter. 

“The thing you have to understand about Anthony is that he makes a lot of promises. And he means them all. He means them all so much he has to personally make sure they’re all kept.” He purses his lips and adds, more quietly, “Sometimes it feels like he’s trying to save the entire world on his own, one person at a time.” 

Deacon smirks. “Yeah, I’ve noticed.”

MacCready looks up again. “It’s admirable and all, but it’s also—”

“Impossible?” Deacon supplies, when he doesn’t finish. 

“Your words, not mine,” MacCready says, with a wry twist of his lips. “Anyway, it puts a lot on his plate. And it never seems to end. The more he takes on, the more things get… pushed down the list.” 

And suddenly, it clicks. “That’s why it’s taken so long to get that medicine you need.”

MacCready sighs. “It’s not personal. I know that. He’s got a lot of people in line for his help. Nick’s been asking about some stuff he needs to track down. You heard how Hancock’s waiting on him. We picked up some robot in a Vault awhile back that keeps asking him when they’re going to do whatever she needs him for every time we stop through Greygarden. And this on top of whatever the Brotherhood wants and whatever you guys want and whatever the Minutemen want.” 

Deacon sets MacCready’s plate on top of his and takes a heavy breath. “And I threw you further down that list when I dragged him into the Quincy thing.” 

MacCready’s eyes snap up. “It wasn’t you, specifically—” 

“I recruited him,” Deacon says. “I got him into this.” 

“I’m not blaming you, Deacon,” MacCready says. “I mean, all right, fine, maybe a couple weeks ago you were a convenient punching bag, but… that’s not the point.”

Deacon gives him a crooked smile. He squints a little in thought, looking at the wall over MacCready’s shoulder. “So, wait, is this why you get so annoyed when Anthony takes on these things? Settlement runs and Railroad stuff and all that?” 

MacCready tilts his head back and forth, noncommittal. “Partly, I guess. And partly because… I mean, I came here because I needed caps, and the more jobs he takes for free, the less of a chance I have of getting what I need.”

Deacon furrows his brow. “He pays you for the security thing, doesn’t he?”

“Sure, yeah. But we also split the take on any jobs we run,” MacCready says. “I know what you’re thinking. If I’ve got the location for a cure, why do I need more caps?” 

Deacon inclines his head a little, a gesture to go on. MacCready’s jaw tightens. “If I get the cure and it doesn’t work, or if I can’t get to it in the end, I need the resources to keep trying. To find other doctors, information, anything.” He frowns, shutting his eyes for a moment. “I won’t give up on him.” 

Deacon can feel his expression soften a little. He lets it happen. “How long have you been gone?”

MacCready taps his fingers on the counter to count. “I guess it’s been… seven, maybe eight months? I was there for Christmas, but I left not long after. It was crap weather to travel through.” 

Deacon swallows. “Have you… heard from home, since then?” 

“I send letters through Daisy, get some back every now and again. I know he’s still—he’s still fighting,” MacCready says, and Deacon’s shoulders relax. “But it’s not getting better.” 

Deacon nods, and straightens up a little. And then something comes tumbling out of his mouth, something he doesn’t know he’s going to say until he says it. “Listen, if things keep coming up for Anthony? We can go. You and me. Hell, even if he comes back ready to go. I’ll come too.” 

MacCready looks up sharply. Deacon kind of wants to give himself the same look. What is he doing? “Deacon, I wasn’t exaggerating. It’s a feral nest. I have no idea what the inside will be like. Don’t offer just because you feel guilty about Quincy, we can—”

“I’m not,” Deacon blurts out. MacCready slowly closes his mouth, looking bewildered. Deacon turns away, pulling a dry rag out of one of the kitchen drawers, considering his words as he does. Way to go, genius. He can’t rescind the offer after just throwing it out like that. And he’d steamrolled past the good excuse MacCready had offered him. The even bigger problem is that he doesn’t want to take it back. He knows the kind of pain MacCready carries. And no one should have to go through that twice, especially not if there’s something he can do about it. 

How far can he stretch this “just a friendly gesture” excuse with himself before it snaps?

“You’re not the only one that has things trying to kill him on the daily,” he finally says, picking up the pan and beginning to dry it. “Always nice to do it for a good cause.” 

“Just like that?” MacCready says, still with the look of confused surprise. 

Deacon sets the pan aside, aggressively ignoring the anxious buzzing under his skin, and reaches for one of the plates. “Yeah. You need help. I’m offering.”

MacCready’s eyes drop to the plate, watching the motion of Deacon’s hands. “That really is why you joined the Railroad, isn’t it. Just… the right thing to do, so you did it.” 

“More or less,” Deacon says, without looking up. He manages to keep himself from cringing, this time. 

“I don’t know what to say,” MacCready says. “Thank you.” 

“Don’t thank me yet, you know I’m not nearly as good a shot as Anthony,” Deacon says. He turns away again to put the plate back in the cupboard, unwilling to meet MacCready’s eyes. A silence stretches between them, long enough to make him itch, because he can hear himself thinking and he’s not interested in doing any more of that right now, thank you, so finally he says, “So back up and tell me about this robot you rescued.”

He looks back over his shoulder in time to see MacCready grimace. He laughs. “Oh, this ought to be good if it gets you to make that face.”

“Fu—freaking _molerats_,” MacCready says, wrinkling his nose. “A whole secret Vault full of them.”

“A secret Vault?” 

“Just wait,” MacCready says, and launches into the story.

\----

Okay. Routine. He just needs to get back into the routine. He needs some breathing room. He needs to get back in the swing of working and redirect his head—racing, stupid thoughts and all—back where it’s supposed to be. On Railroad business. That’s all.

He makes up excuses he knows MacCready sees right through when MacCready tries to coax him into helping with the wall the next morning. MacCready doesn’t seem that surprised, just shakes his head and tells Deacon to put his comics back when he’s done, _lazy jerk._ (And so what if Deacon does spend an hour finishing _Jungle of the Bat Babies_? Even if he _has_ read it four times, can he help it if it’s a page turner?)

Once it climbs toward noon, Deacon dresses himself in tans and bland browns, the sort of unremarkable outfit that will blend in with a crowd of hungry farm hands. He’s known enough in Sanctuary that he can’t pretend to be one of them, but he’ll be glanced at and dismissed as just another face in town. Not known enough to greet, not unknown enough to question. The sweet spot.

He shuffles into the Wet Whistle with the rest of them and takes a quick glance around. Being Sanctuary’s only bar, it’s rarely empty, even before the lunch rush. The crowd ahead of him clumps together in twos and threes around the vacant tables. Taking a table of his own will be noticeable, then. He pivots to the bar instead, sliding onto a stool a few down from a pair of guards. From the half-empty bowls and half-drunk beers in front of them, they’ve been there awhile, but might still fall into some type of gossip Deacon can use. 

“What’ll it be?” comes the gruff voice of the bartender, Gina. She leans one elbow on the counter in front of him and raises her eyebrows expectantly. Even now that he’s come in often enough to worry about being familiar, she never strikes up much of a conversation with him. He always puts a few extra caps in her tip for it. Today is no different; when he orders noodles and a soda, she just nods and reaches under the bar for a glass. 

“I’m just saying, maybe that’s the least of our problems.” The voice of one of the guards nearby reaches Deacon’s ears as Gina pries the cap off a bottle of Nuka Cola and pours it into the glass. 

“You say that now,” the second guard says, his Boston accent heavy. “Bet you’ll change your tune if it’s _you_ gets replaced.” 

Hello. Deacon keeps his head forward but slides his eyes to the side. The second guard is seated closer, leaning against the bar with his back to Deacon. The first is next to him, turned enough to be sitting nearly sideways, facing his friend. From what Deacon can see of his face in his peripheral, he looks exasperated.

“You know that’s a bunch of hooey,” says Guard the First. 

“It is not. My cousin Jeremy works for the Diamond City guard, and he said—”

“Your cousin Jeremy is a drunk who spends all his time ‘guarding’ the Dugout.”

“Doesn’t make it less true! He said that—” 

“He said that someone went missing and then came back different, same urban legend everyone else tells.” 

“I’m telling you, it _happened_.” Guard the Second jabs his fingers against the bar with the last word, tapping for emphasis. 

A steaming bowl of noodles slides under Deacon’s nose. He nods his thanks to Gina and reaches for the napkin holder on the edge of the counter. As he casually pulls out one of the cloth strips folded haphazardly into it to serve as napkins, he turns it slightly, letting it sit at an angle. The reflective metal shows him the face of the first guard more clearly. He reaches for his fork and watches.

“Even if it did,” Guard the First continues, “and even if there _are_ a bunch of robot replacement people running around—and you have to hear how wicked stupid that sounds, Joe—it’s not like it’s their fault, right? I mean robots don’t ask to be made, they just do what they’re told.”

“And if they’re told to kill somebody before they replace them?” Joe says, almost knocking his empty bowl over as he waves his pointer finger triumphantly. 

“Still don’t see how that’s _their_ fault, they don’t program themselves,” the other guard says. Deacon squints a little at the reflection, taking in the features as he bites into a coiled forkful of noodles. Short black hair, light complexion, round sort of nose, square jaw, dimpled chin. Young, maybe somewhere in his twenties. Deacon tries to memorize the face.

“It really doesn’t bother you, does it Vladi?” Joe says. Deacon can’t see his expression, but he sounds just this side of accusing. 

Apparently-Vladi sighs. “Look, if there’s really some big shadow organization playing the boogey man and making fake people and telling them all to kill people, how come we’re not all dead by now? What’s the point of just replacing everyone with robots? And how am I supposed to know the difference if they look just like everyone else anyway?”

“That just makes it creepier!” Joe says. Deacon frowns, the phrase catching his memory a little.

“Damn, Joe, maybe there’s a bunch of them out there just trying to live normal lives like everyone else! Hell if I know!” Vladi throws up his arms. “What I _do_ know is we had raiders trying to kick in the gate the other day. We got bigger problems.” 

Deacon’s eyes drift away from the reflection. Their words carry him back to the campfire in County Crossing, to MacCready looking up at him from the ground, saying the same things, narrowing his eyes like he was trying to understand what Deacon was saying. Or at least… no, wait. _Is_ that what he was trying to do? Deacon had waited that whole day for the usual argument to spark and catch fire and burn their tentative peace to the ground. Instead, MacCready had asked why he joined the Railroad, something Deacon hadn’t anticipated, and actually seemed to try and absorb the answer. To look back on that conversation now, in light of MacCready’s sheepish admission, his promise to his son…? And then he’d agreed to help in Quincy, for all his grumbling about it. Maybe just out of loyalty to Anthony, maybe just to knock in some Gunner heads, but he’d known the catalyst clearly. He’d known the reasons. He’d known what the result meant, and who he was helping, in the end. And he did it anyway. Then, he didn’t even throw the blame at the Railroad for nearly losing his life in the process, and hadn’t let Deacon do it for him when they talked last night. Deacon wasn’t stupid enough to assume any of this meant a massive shift in MacCready’s worldview or anything, but… something _had_ shifted. And that was… well, it was… 

Huh.

“Maybe I will!” Vladi says sharply. Deacon’s eyes snap back up to the reflection in the napkin tin. The two guards are standing up, and Deacon catches a flash of Vladi’s face, pinched in annoyance, before he turns away to count out a few caps on the counter. 

God damn it. Even here, Deacon can’t seem to get his mind to stop drifting back to MacCready. _You knew this would happen. You are distracted and losing perspective and it’s getting worse. And it’s going to get one of you fucking hurt._ He jabs another forkful of noodles in his mouth as the guards walk past him toward the door. There’s a weird feeling sitting under Deacon’s ribs as he tries to direct his thoughts toward remembering Vladi’s face. And nowhere else.

\----

“There ain’t no way you heard that.”

“I swear, that’s exactly what they said.”

“From super mutants? No way.”

“Swear on my life!”

Deacon smirks as he watches Weston squint at MacCready over the top of his cards. They’re back in the bar for poker again. This time around it’s Weston the ghoul doctor, Anne, and Sturges, who seems to be the town handyman. And of course, MacCready. Deacon takes another sip of whiskey as he looks at the pair of sevens he’s holding, lets the pleasant hum of the alcohol soothe the frayed edges of his thoughts. See, he can do this. Have a little fun, have some laughs, have some drinks. Be casual. It’s fine.

“So you’re telling me,” Weston says, leaning to throw a few more caps into the pile on the table, “that I’m supposed to believe super mutants are intelligent enough to fall in love and plot to run away together?”

“How the heck should I know if they were in love?” MacCready says. He flicks enough caps onto the table to meet Weston’s wager. “I just know what I heard: two muties talking about running away together up north to hunt. Almost gave away my position laughing.”

“Oh yes, brother super mutant,” Deacon chimes in, making his voice as deep and gravelly as he can, “Take me in your arms. They can’t understand our love.” 

He leans over the arm of his chair to a chorus of laughter, nearly bumping MacCready’s shoulder as he puckers his lips at him. MacCready wrinkles his nose and wrenches himself backward, shoving at Deacon’s arm. Deacon leans even closer, tilting his head down a little to bat his eyelashes at MacCready over the top of his sunglasses. “Don’t fight this, brother. We leave this place. Make home together!”

“Oh honestly,” Anne says, shaking her head as MacCready swats at Deacon’s shoulder a little harder. “I refuse to find those monsters romantic. That’s just the sort of thing that almost got our dear Rex killed, trying to go up that tower. William, darling, it’s your turn.” 

Deacon almost doesn’t hear her, laughing as he is at MacCready turning his head back and forth to get away from Deacon’s obnoxious lip smacking noises. Deacon finally relents and sits back, still chuckling. As MacCready straightens again, he looks over at Deacon with an amused little grin. Deacon finds himself smiling back. 

“All I know is, if it gets them further away from us, they can run away together all they like,” Sturges says, reordering his cards.

Deacon snorts, finally looking back at his own hand again. He sighs and drops the cards down on the table. “I fold. Can you imagine, though? You make a trip up north somewhere and stumble on some giant, piecemeal house in the middle of nowhere and there they are, two super mutants just macking on each other?”

“Oh, it doesn’t bear thinking about,” Anne says. She lays her cards down too.

“I mean I’d be happy for them,” MacCready says, still grinning.

“Someone get that reporter in Diamond City,” says Weston. “Give her the scoop of a lifetime. ‘Settler Overhears Romantic Super Mutant Tryst.’” 

“Love in the Time of Viscera,” Deacon says. Weston barks out a laugh. 

“The Taming of the Mut,” he says.

“A Tale of Two Muties,” Deacon says.

Weston shakes his head. “Too easy.”

“Does anyone want to translate?” MacCready cuts in. 

“Oh, read a damn book,” Weston grumbles. “Come on, cards on the table.” 

Sturges lays down two pairs. Weston grins and slaps down a full house. MacCready groans and tosses his three-of-a-kind on top. 

The front door opens behind them as Weston scoops up the pile of caps. A few cheers go up from the bar, and Deacon looks up to see Anthony and Garvey strolling in. They wave at the settlers that raise their bottles in salute. Even Gina smiles. MacCready stands, nodding to Garvey as Garvey passes him to shake Sturges’s hand. Deacon watches Anthony pull MacCready into a short, tight hug.

“All good?” Deacon hears MacCready ask over the rising din.

“For now. We’ll talk. Lots of work to do still to get it fortified, but it’s something,” Anthony says. His eyes fall on Deacon. He gives him a small smile and jerks his head to beckon him over.

As Deacon joins them, he’s surprised when Anthony reaches out and tugs him closer by the shoulder. He stumbles forward into the loose hug, trying not to look too startled, but relaxes a little when Anthony murmurs, “Geiger counter?” in his ear.

“In the shop,” Deacon whispers back. 

“You’re needed at home.” 

Anthony releases him, holding his gaze for a moment through the sunglasses to make sure Deacon understands. Deacon nods once. Anthony pats his shoulder and turns back to MacCready, saying something Deacon doesn’t hear. 

Right. “Home.” That’s… that’s good. Better than good. That’s exactly what he needs. Might even be a reassignment, a chance to get back into the routine he’d been missing. That was what he’d wanted. 

So there’s absolutely no reason he should feel so disappointed.

Shit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [obnoxiously hums "Something There" from Beauty and the Beast at increasing volume] [This is now the background music for the anxiety attack Deacon is aggressively trying to pretend he's not having]
> 
> 1) Behind the scenes footage: me, feverishly researching recipes that are feasible post-apocalypse. My eyes land on the tortillas in my bread basket like six feet away. AND SUDDENLY. If they have corn and access to wood fires and the ability to mill, they have access to masa flour. 
> 
> 2) As I mentioned before, available produce is where I'm letting myself get flexible with canon. There's just no way ever single one of the hundreds of varieties of onion in the world no longer exists. I also just thought it'd be fun if certain settlements are kinda known for certain things. Hence, Greentop peppers.
> 
> 3) Not pictured: Anthony, one day eventually learning they accidentally revived Taco Tuesday without him, having an absolute breakdown. Do you _know_, Deacon, how badly this man would kill to eat something he recognizes that doesn't taste like reheated bug meat?
> 
> 4) The super mutant conversation is based in reality, I was sneaking around in the game one time and heard a conversation where two super mutants were basically like "we should leave and go hunt up north" "yes brother" but as much as I scoured YouTube I couldn't find a clip of it. But it made me pause my whole game like "did I just fucking hear two super mutants planning to elope?" And then when I eventually resumed trying to kill them one of them screamed "NOOOOOO!!! YOU KILLED MY BROTHER!!!!!" and I felt like a monster. 
> 
> Chapter 11, as previously mentioned, is an absolute beast but the draft is finished, awaiting final edits. It will go up once I have a draft for Chapter 12. Thank you all again for your patience, as well as for your enthusiasm. Your comments continue to mean the world, as do just the kudos. And I so appreciate anyone at all out there that's taken the time to read, regardless.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Road trip gets complicated, so Deacon has to get creative.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TWO UPDATES IN ONE MONTH PARTY! Turns out boring work trips out of state with nothing to do at night are very conducive to getting some writing done. I have been so anxious to share this chapter because I had so much fun writing it, and I really hope you guys enjoy it. Apologies in advance that it's a bit of a beast, it clocked in at 10,014 words. Many thanks to **serenity-fails** for betaing and helping me keep my Deacon voice (hopefully) in character. 
> 
> Warnings for this chapter: None!

There comes a time in every spy’s career—Deacon assumes, being one of the only spies he knows—where he must ask himself a single important question: _what the fuck do you think you’re doing?_ The answer, of course, should come easily. (And in the voice of an old film noir private eye, which sounds suspiciously like Nick in Deacon’s head.) “My job.” Or, “the right thing.” Or even “whatever it takes for the cause.” 

The answer that comes instead (in plain old Deacon’s voice, shouted over the roaring shitstorm of anxiety in his head) is “exactly what I shouldn’t be doing.” Followed shortly by “getting too god damn comfortable.” This last is said aloud, to the bluebird-shaped pepper shaker with the chipped wing that he’s holding, as he stands in front of the shelves in his bedroom. The full shelves, covered in things.

When the fuck, precisely, had Deacon acquired _things_?

There’s an identical salt shaker on the shelf closest to him, that one with a scratched beak. He’d found them in the basement of Croup Manor, and carried them back home, along with a stone he’d picked up outside the Nahant church. The smooth, black surface of it was criss-crossed with white streaks, like lightning bolts. Behind all of that rests a rusty license plate he’d found on the ground outside the Mass Pike tunnel, half-buried under old leaves and gravel. It starts with the letters “DEA,” and he’d taken it as a good omen. The shot glasses he’d snatched from the old apartment in Quincy sit next to the tato-shaped pin cushion Anne had forgotten to take back from him when he’d picked up his coat, right before the raiders hit Sanctuary. There’s more yet, tchotchkes and baubles and little toys he vaguely remembers dropping into his pack without thinking about it, and setting aside without thinking about it, and assembling into a collection without fucking _thinking_ about it. 

He’s standing here with his pack open on his bed, ready to throw his things in and vacate like he’s done with countless inn rooms and HQ lockers and co-opted abandoned houses (if he’d had no other option). He travels light, always, so he just expects to dig out clothes and wigs and a few pairs of shoes, having used up the last of his Stealth Boys in Quincy. But now, apparently, he’s got to stare down an entire pile of junk he’d started decorating the room with, like it was his to decorate. Like he was… settling in. Unconsciously. And he’d been collecting excuses, too, to use like stimpaks on every warning flare of anxiety in his chest every time he might’ve had an inkling of this. _You just need to get working again. You just need some space. It’ll pass. It’s fine._ Hard to run down that checklist now when he’s standing face-to-face with undeniable proof he’s been moving the fuck in and just forgot to tell himself. 

He knows better. He fucking _knows_ better. 

He closes his eyes and forces himself to think of the Farm, one of the old HQs. It isn’t hard to conjure the flames vaulting into the sky, the smoke choking out the sun, and somewhere inside, his little cupboard of a room with all the little trinkets on the shelves. Burning down to the dirt, along with the bodies of all the agents and runners and heavies that hadn’t made it past the Courser. Think of that, he tells himself. Picture it real god damn clear.

_That_ is why you do not and cannot get attached to things. Or to… to people.

He looks at the shot glasses again. You sure as shit don’t get attached to the way you can make someone laugh, or the way they’ll come barreling down the hall at three in the morning to pull you out of a nightmare, or the way they look completely enraptured by a meal you made them. You don’t make them meals. You don’t learn their damn secrets, or volunteer to help with their personal shit. And you don’t hold on to things that remind you of them.

Wait.

Deacon’s eyes widen. He looks over all the junk sitting on the shelf. Nahant, Oberland, Quincy, Sanctuary… oh, for fuck’s sake. He tightens his hand around the pepper shaker. _What the fuck do you think you’re doing?_

Not going down this road. That’s what.

He turns and grabs the pack off his bed. There’s a smaller bag tucked inside, where he usually keeps his wigs. He yanks it out. He’s putting a stop to this before it goes any further. Right here, right now. He should’ve known. He should’ve listened to his instincts back in Nahant. 

He starts pulling things off the shelves and tossing them into the bag, one by one. He’ll sell them off in Diamond City, or at one of the settlement trading posts. He might get something for the shakers, at least, or maybe the glasses. 

“Do you always travel with that much crap weighing you down?”

Deacon startles, his head shooting up. Oh, wonderful. It just gets better. He’s so locked in his own head he’s making rookie mistakes now, like not hearing footsteps coming down the damn hall, right at him. MacCready leans one shoulder on the door frame, raising an eyebrow at the bag in his hand. Deacon looks back down at whatever he’d just pulled off the shelf.

“Never leave home without your souvenir salt shaker, Bobby,” he says, tossing it in the bag. “Never know when it might be useful.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” MacCready says, smiling faintly.

Deacon stuffs the bag into his pack and then moves to his drawers, pulling one open. “Thought I might try to sell a few things on my way out.” He feels oddly nervous about drawing too much attention to the bag, with the little revelation he just had crawling under his skin.

MacCready just nods. “Speaking of traveling out, want some company?”

“What?” Deacon nearly drops the pile of folded shirts he’s holding.

MacCready jerks his head toward Deacon’s window. “One of the settlements called over the radio. They need someone to deal with some raiders. Gives me an excuse to check in with Daisy, see if she’s gotten any mail in. I know you’re headed over that way.” 

Deacon flounders, trying to rapidly file through his brain for an excuse that won’t make him sound like an asshole. _Sorry, it turns out I’m highly allergic to friendship. Really. Got hives and everything. So I need to bounce, like, yesterday. Alone._

“I’m surprised Anthony isn’t going himself,” is what Deacon lands on, shoving the shirt pile into his pack. He turns back and opens another drawer, pulling out a few folded pairs of pants.

“Apparently he’s only here in passing. The Brotherhood wants answers about what’s happening in Quincy, so he has to go and smooth some feathers before they start looking at it too closely,” MacCready says. “So, schedule not so clear after all.” 

It takes a second for that to register. Deacon straightens as he thumps the last pair of pants down on his arm. Their conversation from the other night. Oh god. It hadn’t even occurred to him that MacCready might be looking for him to make good on his promise, and head out with him to that medical place. 

“Shit,” Deacon mutters. “Bobby, listen, I… I have to go straight back. But when I’m finished with whatever it is—”

“It’s okay, Deacon,” MacCready says. “I get it, duty calls.”

Deacon tosses his pants pile in his pack. How often had Anthony said the same thing to him? He grits his teeth. He’ll keep this promise, because it’s too damn important. Too late to have reservations about it _now_. But that’s it. After that he’ll, well, keep his distance. For both their sakes. “When we’re done, okay? We’ll go.”

MacCready nods, the corner of his mouth curling up into a small smile. “All right.”

“All right,” Deacon echoes. He drifts back to the drawers.

“You, uh, planning to be gone awhile?” MacCready says. “Seems like you’re clearing out.”

Deacon purses his lips. “I don’t know. I don’t know what they’re calling me in for. Might be awhile, depending on what it is.” _Or how much willpower I have._

Hidden under the shield of his sunglasses, he darts a glance up in time to see MacCready frown. He bites his lip, and Deacon has to look away when he realizes that MacCready looks disappointed. Exactly the way Deacon had felt when Anthony had whispered in his ear. And Deacon is _not going down this road_.

“Well, you’d better be back to do something about the leaves hanging in my kitchen,” MacCready finally says.

“Oh. I can, uh—I can get rid of—”

“No, don’t,” MacCready says, a little quickly. Deacon raises his eyebrows. Oh god, are MacCready’s ears turning pink or is Deacon imagining things he absolutely needs to _not_ imagine right now? 

“It’d be kind of a waste,” MacCready continues, looking away, “now that I know what you can do with them. You’ll just have to come back and use them. Besides, if you leave for good, they’ll eventually try to stick someone else in here that might be twice as annoying as you are.” 

“Oh, I see how it is,” Deacon says, bending his head to focus on the drawer and not on MacCready. “I knew you had an angle to this whole friendship thing. Just using me for my cooking skills.”

“Hey, it was your idea,” MacCready says. He clears his throat. “Anyway, I should, uh… do my own packing. Leave in the morning?”

Deacon nods. “Bright and early.”

MacCready pushes off the door frame and turns, but pauses before leaving. He glances back over his shoulder. “And um, thanks. For, you know. MedTek.”

“Don’t mention it,” Deacon says. MacCready disappears down the hall.

_No really_, Deacon thinks. _Don’t mention it. Please._ He shakes his head, pulling off his shades to rub his eyes. Good god. He is such an idiot.

\----

The morning dawns foggy and grey outside Deacon’s window. He lays in bed longer than he should, listening to the shuffle of footsteps on the sidewalk outside, and the muffled greetings called across the street. If he turns his head, he can see them walking by, emerging from the mist like ghosts. Familiar faces he’s seen in the bar or on the street. A few he can even put names to. He looks away, turning onto his back. His eyes drift across the room, over the bare desk and the empty shelves. Over the patched, uneven ceiling. He realizes as he stares up at it that his hand is moving, and lifts his head a little to watch himself smooth over the wrinkles in the blanket. He can feel the soft, ribbed texture against his palm. 

His hand stills when it hits him that he’s memorizing it. He’s memorizing all of it. 

He sits up straight and yanks his legs out from under the blanket. Time to go. 

They’re on the road within the hour, MacCready grumbling quietly under his breath about early mornings and grainy coffee. (Which MacCready had made, so he really can’t blame Deacon for that one.) The clouds stay thick overhead, shrouding the sun, and making everything look dull and muted, even when the fog starts to dissipate. 

Deacon hates traveling in fog. Too hard to see ahead of them, and around them, and he finds himself going rigid at every snapped twig and creaking board and kicked bit of gravel. They stay quiet, other than MacCready’s occasional muttering, until they turn off the road just past the Drumlin Diner. The fog rolls back far enough by then that Deacon can see the towering heights of the Corvega plant in the distance off to their left, and the faint shape of the highway in front of them. His shoulders ease a little. Until MacCready starts laughing quietly behind him.

Deacon pauses halfway through peeking around an overturned train car and looks back in confusion. MacCready shakes his head.

“Sorry,” he says, keeping his voice low. “It’s just… over there.” He gestures off to the right, toward the misty shadow of a broken section of the highway. Deacon squints at it, then back at MacCready.

“If there’s a punchline, I’m missing it,” Deacon says. He steps carefully around the train car and further into the thickening line of trees. MacCready follows.

“That’s where we met,” MacCready says, and that stops Deacon midstep. He looks back over to where MacCready had pointed again. Are they that close to...? His eyes dart around the trees, and fix on a downward slope of the ground several yards away. He knows without seeing it there’s a sewer pipe hidden below that hill. A heavy feeling settles into his stomach. Switchboard is somewhere below their feet.

“I was just thinking,” MacCready continues, stopping at Deacon’s side, “that if you’d told me then we were going to be friends, I probably would’ve laughed myself stupid.”

The corner of Deacon’s mouth twitches up, despite the vaguely sick feeling in his stomach. He tries to picture it again. MacCready marching over the hilltop behind Anthony, glaring at the horizon like it owed him money. Just a scrawny, over-puffed guard dog, ready to bite at Deacon’s heels the second he stepped out of line. The thought does make Deacon laugh, whisper-thin.

“Amazing what a few weeks of forced proximity can do to your judgement,” he says. His smile fades a little, though. 

“Yeah,” MacCready says quietly. He sounds a lot less amused, too. Deacon obstinately keeps his eyes on the highway. 

As he looks to where an ancient vertibird is hanging upside down off the edge by its wings, Deacon swears he sees movement. A shadow, flitting by behind the jagged scraps of the plane, there and gone. He freezes, furrowing his brow, and stares at the spot for a long moment. He watches the vines spilling over the underbelly and off the sides sway a little in the breeze. Not that, then. He doesn’t see any birds, doesn’t hear any squawking. 

“What is it?” MacCready says next to him. In his periphery, Deacon can see him trying to follow his gaze.

“Could’ve sworn I saw something move up there.” He squints at the gap the vertibird had torn through the metal and concrete. He can faintly see the rounded top of a car behind it, but the shadow of it stays still. 

Deacon glances over to see MacCready lifting the scope of his rifle. He trains it slowly over the length of the highway, then back. Then he lowers his arms, looks back at Deacon, and shrugs. 

Deacon nods, but the unease doesn’t lift. He takes a careful look around them, his eyes lingering on the spaces between the trees, and on the concrete columns ahead. The vertibird creaks a little as another breeze passes, but nothing moves. 

“After you,” Deacon finally says. He motions MacCready forward. “Just… keep an eye out.” 

\----

They’re halfway to Diamond City when Deacon sees it again. 

Most of the lingering fog had burned away while they sat outside the farmhouse at Oberland, backs to the wood siding, nibbling on jerky and some mutfruit off the trees in the yard. Another hour after that had carried them up the tracks and through the forest. They cross over the slope of a hill pockmarked with bushes, keeping careful footing through the grass, and step down in front of an old traffic tunnel choked with a jackknifed mack truck. Deacon glances at the mouth of it as they pass. There. Darting in front of the light from the other end, Deacon sees a shadow. He stops, and reaches out to grab the arm of MacCready’s coat. He backs them both toward the edge of the road. 

“Again?” MacCready whispers, letting Deacon tug him into the bushes. It’s not much cover, especially if someone knows they’re there, but it’s a lot better than squatting in the middle of the road like sitting ducks. (Does that expression bother anyone else? Deacon’s never seen a duck that wasn’t scribbled on a comic book page or launching itself gracefully from a painted pond. Did they do a lot of sitting? Was that a thing? Must have been nice when animals just sat and didn’t attack on sight. Speaking of.)

“The tunnel,” Deacon says. MacCready’s already raising his rifle before Deacon even lets go of his sleeve. Deacon reaches under his pack and pulls Deliverer out of his waistband, keeping his finger on the trigger. He scans the bridge above, and then looks to the continuing forest across the street. Plenty of bugs to be found in these woods, especially on the other side of the tunnel, back toward the river. The shadow had been too thin and fast to be a bloatfly, but stingwings and bloodbugs fly faster. It was too quick to be any of the bigger animals, except maybe a deathclaw. And really, why not just drop a deathclaw on his head at this point? With the week Deacon’s having? Still, deathclaws didn’t tend to play with their food. If it was tracking their scent, it would’ve split the truck in half to use for cutlery on their corpses by now. Well, certainly no shortage of ferals stalking around here. Or wild dogs.

Or someone was following them.

After a moment, MacCready lowers his scope, but keeps the rifle in his hands. “Still don’t see anything.” He glances at Deacon. “What are the chances that you’re just paranoid?”

Deacon gives him a withering look he hopes translates through the shades. The corner of MacCready’s mouth lifts in a faint, lopsided grin. 

“Yes, fine, I eat paranoia for breakfast,” Deacon grumbles. “Doesn’t mean I’m wrong.” 

“No, it doesn’t,” MacCready says, grin sliding away. “What are you thinking, then?” 

“Well, there’s the obvious, but…” Deacon considers. The Institute always lives at the top of his list for potential tails. Still, in his experience, Coursers had the means of vanishing from sight and used it, whether it was Stealth Boys or something programmed in. (Deacon never stuck around long enough to go digging in their pockets.) Nothing saying the Coursers were the Institute’s only trackers, though. Desdemona’s words float through his thoughts. _We stay alive assuming they have someone like you on their side._ Well. _He_ knew how not to get caught on a basic tail job. 

So, all right. Say it wasn’t the Institute. Someone that knew enough to stay out of sight, wheel around alternate routes, but not enough to be practiced at it. That ruled out raiders out of the gate. Rare for them to bother shadowing people when they could just pick off caravans from the roadside or raid settlements. Two guys without obvious cargo? Not worth the effort. 

The Brotherhood might be an outside possibility, if Quincy had made them suspicious. Deacon’s careful, keeping track of what he wears and where, keeping his shades up, but MacCready? MacCready might as well hang a target on his back, wearing the same coat and the same hat and the same needlessly complicated belt configuration every time he traveled. Even the Brotherhood could pick up on that, though so far they’d rarely shown any kind of attraction to subtlety. 

Huh. MacCready… did tend to stand out, if you were looking for him. He’d been wearing the same things since his time with the Gunners. Which would make it really easy for the Gunners to find him, if they wanted to. Since he’d taken three separate opportunities to hit them where it hurts, it wouldn’t really be surprising if they did. What holds a grudge like a raider, gargles blood like a raider, but has the patience and precision to play the long game for revenge? 

“Shit,” Deacon mutters. “Let’s… hope I’m wrong, for once.” 

“What does that mean?” MacCready says. He immediately goes tense, eyes snapping to the mouth of the tunnel again. 

“It means we need to get you some new clothes,” Deacon says. He nods toward the truck as MacCready gives a confused look down at his coat. “Come on, let’s do a sweep.” 

They circle the whole tunnel and the bridge above, and peek carefully into the windows of the tin shed sagging next to the tracks. They find little beyond a few dirt-streaked Nuka Cola bottles and an old lantern. Deacon spots a few footprints in the dirt near the roadside, but they have no way of proving another traveler hadn’t passed through before they’d reached the road. Deacon leans against the stone masonry holding up the bridge and sighs. 

“So you think I’m the target,” MacCready says, straightening from examining the footprints. 

“I think you’re easier to track than I am,” Deacon says. “And I think you’ve made pissing off the Gunners your new favorite hobby.” 

MacCready sighs. He steps into the mouth of the tunnel where Deacon rests, keeping out of obvious sight. “Okay, I get it, you don’t like my da—my stupid coat. What now, master of disguise?”

“Yeah, sorry, I really only go for guys with two sleeves,” Deacon says, and then instantly wishes he could kick himself. He refuses to look over, even when MacCready gives a weird little breath of a laugh. He glances out each side of the tunnel again instead, and then lowers his voice. “I think the only option is to keep going. We try to stick to back alleys where we can once we get into the city proper, and I think we make a pit stop in Diamond City.”

“Not head straight for Goodneighbor?” MacCready says, taking Deacon’s cue and speaking quietly. “Hancock doesn’t let the obvious gang members through the gate. Raiders, Gunners. Doesn’t matter.”

“How’d you slide through?” Deacon says, finally looking over with a smirk. 

“By leaving them,” MacCready says, raising his eyebrows. He tilts his head back and forth a few times. “And maybe Daisy vouched for me. A little.” 

Deacon chuckles. “That’s one mystery solved. I’d just figured Hancock missed the tells somehow. Which would’ve lowered him a lot in my estimation. Seriously, man, you are practically broadcasting the ex-Gunner thing.”

“You’ve made your point,” MacCready says, a little louder, a little tight. He lowers his voice again. “So, Goodneighbor? Yes?” 

“If they figure out we’re headed there, they’re going to spring on us before we reach it,” Deacon says. “They’ll already know the rules. Even if they’re smart enough to keep to street clothes, and I know for a fact some of them are, they’ll know it’ll be too hard to start something there. Diamond City gives us crowds to blend into, and allies if we need them. I think we lose them there, circle back to the entrance, _then_ head for Goodneighbor.” Of course, that might just leave the tail waiting outside the door for MacCready, and if he had a settlement to travel on to alone, that would be the perfect time to ambush him. Shit. Well, one problem at a time.

MacCready pushes off the wall. “Works for me, let’s get moving.”

Deacon follows him past the cab of the truck. He starts looking back every few seconds as they go.

\----

The market is bustling when they arrive in Diamond City. The clouds have forced the early August heat to loosen its chokehold, and the scrap wood streets swell with people. It lets Deacon breathe a little easier, at least. Until breathing easier makes him cough through the wafting smell of fresh meat from the butcher shop mingling with the onion broth from the noodle shop. Turning his nose into his shoulder a little, he marches them past Nat, shouting the latest headline from her perch, and over home plate, folding them easily into the crowd. 

“What now?” MacCready asks, keeping his voice low and leaning a little toward Deacon to be heard.

“Now, you take off that hat,” Deacon says. He deliberately slows his pace to a stroll and looks around like he’s considering the shop stalls.

His eyes land on the old buffet table shoved against the railing above Fallon’s, behind a pair of mannequins. He walks over, and makes a show of looking through the shirts laid out in a ruffled pile. 

“My hat?” MacCready repeats. Deacon wants to roll his eyes, even if the effect would be lost. 

“Yes, the giant green target on your head,” Deacon says through clenched teeth, without looking at him. “Take it off.”

Deacon lifts up a button-up flannel shirt by the shoulders, as though gauging the size. MacCready sighs next to him. Then his pack lands on the table next to the shirt pile, nearly knocking a wool beanie in the corner to the ground. Deacon’s jaw tightens, and he turns his head to glare. Instead, his gaze snags on the movement of MacCready’s fingers as he pulls his hat off and runs them through his hair, fluffing it a little where the hat had pressed it flat to his head. MacCready drops the hat into his pack and raises his eyebrows at Deacon.

“Happy?” he grumbles.

Deacon realizes he’s staring, still uselessly holding the shirt in the air. He refolds it and lays it on the table, then looks away to check the entrance staircase. There’s a woman dragging a heavy-looking duffle bag down the stairs, and lugging an even heavier-looking backpack on her shoulders. She’s dressed in jeans, with leather pads strapped to her thighs and her chest. She barely looks at the crowd. Scavenger, then, or some kind of trader, bringing in a haul. Not their tail. 

“Coat next,” Deacon says to MacCready without turning.

“Seriously?” 

“Yes, seriously. Scarf too, while they’re not here to see us changing,” Deacon says. “Just be casual, it’ll look like you got too hot and took them off. I don’t actually know how you’re not sweating bullets—”

“I don’t know how you walk around without armor on when shi—when crap like this happens,” MacCready says. But he does start tugging the scarf out from under his collar.

“I’m never without armor,” Deacon says, pretending to look at another shirt. 

MacCready stuffs the scarf into the top of his pack. “That t-shirt can stop bullets, huh?”

“It’s got ballistic weave,” Deacon says. When he hears MacCready laugh, he looks up from the table, face blank.

MacCready stops laughing, his fingers pausing on one of the buttons of his coat. “Wait, really?”

“MacCready! Is you again!”

Both of them tense and turn. Vadim elbows his way through the crowd toward them, smiling his too-wide smile. The bag on his arm clinks loudly as he claps a hand down on MacCready’s shoulder. Deacon plasters a grin on his face as he glances frantically around the market to see who heard that little announcement. A few lingering looks from the crowd, but none that seem to fix and hold. Another check of the entrance stairs shows them empty. 

“Hey Vadim,” MacCready says weakly.

“I did not think I see you again so soon, eh?” Vadim shakes MacCready’s shoulder a little and then lets go. He laughs, so loud, and Deacon grits his teeth into the grin he fights to keep in place. “I knew you miss me!”

“Tough to beat your company, Vadim,” MacCready says.

Vadim jerks his head in the general direction of the Dugout Inn. “You come, have drink! Bring your friend!” 

“Oh, uh,” MacCready flounders, shooting Deacon what Deacon takes as a _help-me-Deacon-I’m-really-bad-at-this_ look. Or you know. Something like that. 

“We actually just stopped for supplies,” Deacon cuts in. “We need to get back on the road, there’s a settlement—”

“Ah, come on, one drink! You have time,” Vadim says, clasping MacCready’s shoulder again and tugging him toward the street. “Come! Is good to travel with fire in your belly.” Does he ever stop laughing?

MacCready fixes Deacon with another look, barely managing to grab his pack before Vadim pulls him away from the table. Shit. If they try to protest again, Vadim will make an even bigger scene, and he’s drawing too much attention to them as it is. But sitting themselves in the Dugout, with its cramped space and single exit? Okay, think, Deacon. They could try getting a room and hiding out, but Deacon doesn’t trust Vadim not to tell anyone asking that MacCready’s there somewhere. Still, maybe he could leave MacCready there and circle back outside in fresh clothes, head off their tail before whoever it is reaches the door. 

He follows after them, keeping his eyes on the stairs as Vadim drones on about how he “left Yefim in charge, and he is bound to scare off customers if I leave him too long. No gift for people, that Yefim.” He finally releases MacCready, who falls into step beside Deacon.

“You have a plan?” MacCready hisses to him. “Because I do. If they walk in the bar, I’m shooting their heads off.” 

“No you’re not, you’ll start a shootout and that’s the last thing we need,” Deacon says. “We don’t even know who they are. Just get your coat off when you sit down, like you’re getting comfortable. We can work with this.”

“You better be right,” MacCready mutters as they round the corner.

\----

They sit at the furthest end of the bar, letting Vadim chatter on as he pours them each a glass of moonshine. Deacon keeps his head forward, but watches the door through the leaves of an ugly plastic ficus drooping next to the couch in the middle of the room. MacCready sits tensely next to him. He’s twisted around on the stool to keep his back to the bar, rather than the door.

“So then I tell him—ah! Reggie!” Vadim looks up as a man in plain-looking clothes wanders through the door. Deacon watches him climb onto a stool at the other end of the bar. He’s skinny, this one, rolled up sleeves loose on his arms. No muscle to him. So not used to combat, or travel. Not their guy.

“I’ll be back, eh?” Vadim promises as he sets a glass next to MacCready’s elbow. “Reggieeee! Early today!”

Vadim falls into conversation with the guy, barking out a laugh over something Deacon can’t hear. Deacon turns his gaze back to the door. His fingers wrap tight around his glass, but he doesn’t drink. He turns the pieces of his plan over in his head. He’s got a leather jacket spread over his knees, pulled from the pack at his feet. He’ll pull it on in a moment and tell MacCready to get them a room. He’ll give MacCready excuses to use, if Vadim asks where he went. Forgot something at Myrna’s. Saw an old friend. Whatever. He’ll park himself back near the entrance, watch for the tail, head them off at the pass, get them talking. Use a little misdirection. It’ll be fine. Granted, it’s been a long time since he was the tailee, and it’s setting him on edge, and he’s going to buy MacCready a whole new god damn wardrobe if he has to duct tape him into it and burn that stupid duster to ashes. But it’s fine. It’ll be fine. 

“This crap tastes like Abraxo smells,” MacCready mutters, slinging the glass back on the table. The duster in question is now tucked into his pack, along with his Pip Boy. The chest armor and pistol holsters are bare to the room and Deacon can tell it’s making MacCready uncomfortable by the way he keeps hunching his shoulders in.

“You actually drink it?” Deacon says. 

“I could really use a drink right now,” MacCready says. His fingers tap restlessly on his knee. Itching for a smoke, too, probably. 

“Listen,” he says, clearing his throat. “In a minute I’m going to—”

He’s cut off by MacCready drawing in a sharp breath and whirling around on the stool, ducking his head low. Deacon’s eyes snap to the door. Two men stand inside the threshold. One is tall and burly, tan, with an old military jacket buttoned tight to bursting over his chest. Deacon can make out the blocky imprint of hard armor underneath. His companion is shorter but no less bulky, dark-skinned, a beret tipped to one side over his forehead. They’ve been smart enough to conceal the obvious Gunner markings but the camo and the combat boots might as well be neon signs. Vadim calls a bright greeting to them, and Deacon grabs MacCready’s wrist.

“Get your stuff,” he whispers, and jerks his head toward the alcove behind them. MacCready nods, wide-eyed. 

They duck quickly around the corner, pressing their backs to the wall. Deacon clutches the leather jacket he’d been holding tightly and listens. No shouting, no running, so the two hadn’t immediately noticed them scrambling away. Okay. Adrenaline shoots through Deacon’s limbs, punching up his heart rate, and clearing his head. He was a runner, once. He remembers the electric fear, dodging between shadows, watching the glow of the streetlights to see if they caught oddly on the air, a sign of something invisible passing beneath them. It’s a matter of running at the right moment, and stopping at the right moment, and knowing where to run better than what’s running after you. Think, he tells himself. Diamond City. There are the back alleys, the side streets, the gaps between the buildings—

“All right,” Deacon whispers, turning to MacCready. “Put these packs behind that crap in the corner. We have about ten seconds before Vadim blurts out you’re here. I’m gonna get us out of this but you’re going to have to trust me, and do what I tell you to do when I tell you to do it, because there won’t be time to explain.”

MacCready’s face immediately scrunches into a frown, and he opens his mouth for what Deacon can clearly see is going to be one of the questions they don’t _fucking have time for_ when right on cue, they hear Vadim say, “MacCready? Of course! He is—oh. Well, he was here, just now.” 

“Shit. Crap,” MacCready bites out. “Fine, yes, whatever you want.”

“Mind if we have a look around?” comes a deeper voice. “Maybe he needed a bathroom break. We just wanted to catch up a little, old friends, you know.”

Deacon creeps to the end of the wall and slowly peeks around the corner. For a moment, he sees nothing but scattered, empty tables. Then Big Chest ambles into view, heading toward where Deacon knows they keep the kitchen. Half Pint doesn’t follow. Which means he’s checking the other hallway, back toward the inn rooms. 

“We’re going for the door, side by side, me on the outside. Move quick but don’t run, got it?” Deacon whispers, glancing back over his shoulder. MacCready nods.

They make it halfway past the stupid ficus when Vadim’s voice rings out like a god damn fire alarm. “Ah, MacCready! MacCready, there you are! You have—”

“Go! Now!” Deacon says. They both break into a run. Deacon doesn’t even spare a glance back when the shouting starts. 

He doesn’t pause when they burst out the door. He takes in the outside tables as they pass, and spots a man seated toward the street with a red silk bomber jacket hanging off the back of his chair. Deacon grabs it smoothly as they race by. He shoves the leather jacket in his other hand at MacCready as they near the corner.

“Put it on!” he says, already pulling the bomber over his own shoulders. MacCready doesn’t argue.

When they reach the market, Deacon takes the corner sharp, MacCready on his heels. They nearly crash into a couple looking at the prices for facial surgery at the doctor’s stall. Deacon weaves MacCready into the thick of the crowd, quick but careful: first moving toward the noodle stand, then swinging wider back toward Solomon’s shelves of chems. He zigzags past shoppers and traders, around scavengers and farm hands, until they’re swept into the passing waves of people. Only then does he risk a glance back. The two Gunners stand near the surgery center, scanning the market. 

“Okay, easy now,” he says to MacCready, slowing his pace as he pushes them toward the edge of the crowd. He can _feel_ how much MacCready wants to argue with him—why are they slowing down, is Deacon _insane_—but he just follows, keeping pace on the outside to let Deacon’s body half shield him from view. Deacon reaches into his pocket and pulls out the pompadour wig he’d had ready for his first plan. He circles away from MacCready around a pair of traders, and ducks his head down. Not enough to look strange, just enough to keep low. He slides the wig smoothly into place, like he’s just running his hands through hair that’s always been there, and straightens again. Another glance up shows Big Chest stepping into the crowd around the couple at the surgery stall, squinting in the wrong direction. No one else is paying them much attention. Perfect.

Deacon moves back closer to MacCready again as they reach the railing above Fallon’s. He knocks the back of his hand into MacCready’s hip, and when MacCready looks, Deacon makes a subtle gesture for him to keep going. MacCready furrows his brow, and Deacon has to mouth “go” to get him to keep moving. Deacon takes a couple steps back, bringing him level with the buffet table of shirts. He reaches quickly for the wool beanie on the corner, snagging it off the table in a flash before turning and jogging to catch up with MacCready. A final glance back shows Big Chest has made it past Solomon’s but hasn’t noticed them. 

“Side street,” Deacon says, pushing MacCready toward the covered back street where Nick’s agency is. He shoves the beanie into MacCready’s hands without a word, and they pick up a run again, passing in and out of the neon glow of Nick’s sign. They fly past the back doors of several shops and through the open chain link gate at the end. 

Once they clear the street, Deacon skids to a stop, eyes darting over their surroundings. It’s quieter here, behind the market, where the traders don’t go. There’s a few hands tending the mutfruit trees, a passing settler here and there, but no crowd to obscure them. They could try the fields, but it’ll be harder to blend into the trees in the daylight. They could try for the stands, but they’ll lose time climbing, and might just end up moving targets if they’re spotted. 

“Why are we stopping?” MacCready snaps. 

Deacon’s gaze finally lands on a big industrial pipe jutting down from the side of that weird lab on the end of the street. An idea sparks. 

“Come on,” Deacon says, jogging toward it. He hears MacCready splashing along the muddy path behind him. 

“Why didn’t we just go to Nick’s?” MacCready says.

“They’ll search Nick’s like they searched Vadim’s. This is going to get them off us, trust me,” Deacon says. “Just get up against the wall, behind the pipe.”

MacCready gives him an incredulous look. “This is your grand hiding place? We’re right out in the open. You should've just let me shoot—”

Footsteps, and the sound of shifting of wooden boards, echo off the enclosure of the street behind them. Deacon doesn’t bother to look, just crowds MacCready back against the wall as MacCready’s mouth snaps shut with an audible click. Deacon pulls off his sunglasses, stuffing them in the pocket of his borrowed jacket. 

“Put your hands on my back,” Deacon whispers.

MacCready’s eyes fly up to his. “My hands? What the hell do you—”

“I’m checking that synth’s place,” comes a voice from down the street. “You start checking up there.”

“Got it,” comes the deeper voice from earlier.

Deacon raises his eyebrows at MacCready in what he hopes clearly conveys the _I told you so_. He whispers, “I’ll explain later, just do it.”

He turns his body a little so his back blocks most of MacCready from view. He lifts his own hands and cups them lightly over MacCready’s jaw, positioning his thumbs at the corners of MacCready’s mouth to cover whatever facial hair he can. MacCready’s eyes widen, startled. He goes very still under Deacon’s fingers.

“Hands,” Deacon hisses at him. It seems to take him a moment, but Deacon finally feels a tentative warmth sliding around his sides just as Big Chest passes the gate in Deacon’s periphery.

“Hey, you the—oh shit.”

MacCready’s hands tighten against his back. Deacon looks down. “I got this,” he mouths. MacCready’s gaze flickers down to Deacon’s lips as he does, lingering there for a second, then immediately jumping back up to his eyes. This close, Deacon can see a flush creeping up his neck. 

Not the time. _Not_ the time. Focus. 

Deacon turns his head slowly, barely enough to show Big Chest more than his nose and a glimpse of his eye.

“Hey, uh,” Big Chest says, “you two seen a couple guys come running through here? Bald guy and a—”

“Does it look like we’ve seen anyone?” Deacon grunts, putting on a heavier Boston accent.

“Stuff the attitude, pal,” Big Chest says. “These guys are dangerous.”

“Good for them,” Deacon says. “Little busy here, _pal_.”

At that moment, Deacon feels one of MacCready’s hands slide a warm line down his spine. His breath catches, the feeling sending goosebumps scattering over his skin. The hand comes to rest low on the small of his back, slipping underneath the hem of the jacket. Deacon turns his head back, barely managing to keep the motion casual. Beneath where a few of his fingers rest against MacCready’s neck, he can faintly feel the kick of MacCready’s heart rate as their eyes meet. MacCready curls his hand slowly where it sits, right above Deacon’s tailbone, right where… where Deliverer is tucked into Deacon’s waistband.

Oh. Right.

From the outside, it’ll look like pleasure, like a wanton sort of clinging motion, instead of what it is: MacCready wrapping his fingers around the pistol’s grip and dipping his pointer in toward the trigger. They stare at one another, MacCready’s lips parting between Deacon’s thumbs as his breathing starts to pick up.

“Useless damn perverts,” Deacon hears Big Chest mutter behind them. His footsteps cross behind Deacon and up onto the metal grate jutting over the reservoir to the left. Deacon hears shelves and crates being shoved around.

Deacon’s heartbeat hammers in his ears as he shifts, adjusting the angle of his body. He drops one hand from MacCready’s face and leans it on the wall instead, so his upper arm shields them both. He keeps his other hand where it is, in case Half Pint comes from the other direction. 

“How is this better than hiding?” MacCready whispers hoarsely. His breath fans hot over Deacon’s neck as he says it. Deacon hadn’t realized how close he was leaning. He ignores the fresh wave of goosebumps that races up his arms, and tilts his head so his mouth is close to MacCready’s ear. To keep his reply quiet. Obviously. 

“Let them scour the city while we hide in plain sight,” he breathes. He feels MacCready stiffen a little against him, but Big Chest comes back before Deacon can ask if he’s all right. He waits for the Gunner to pass behind them again, then adds, “They’ll waste their time, decide we’ve left, and give up.” 

A door creaks open down the enclosed street, then slams shut, right as a settler passes by them, heading toward the fields. MacCready bows his head forward a little, and his nose brushes Deacon’s throat. Deacon absolutely does _not_ feel that all the way down to his damn toes.

“Nothing?” Deacon hears what he assumes to be Half Pint’s voice come from over near the gate. He doesn’t hear an answer, but he does hear boots sloshing through the mud. 

“All right, let’s search the field,” Half Pint says. The footsteps slowly retreat further away, in the direction of the Wall. 

It’s several long seconds before either of them moves. In the sudden quiet, broken only by the distant sounds of the marketplace, Deacon hears every uneven breath MacCready takes. He can feel the shift of MacCready’s jaw, his stubble scratching lightly at Deacon’s palm. He can feel every restless twitch of MacCready’s fingers where they still wrap around the gun at Deacon’s back. 

It occurs to Deacon—objectively—that this may have been a bad idea. 

“Do you see them?” Deacon finally asks. He pulls his hand away from MacCready’s face, but the phantom heat lingers on his fingers. 

MacCready straightens a little, trying to look over Deacon’s shoulder. He has to take a step closer to do it, making Deacon unbearably aware of the mere inch of space that leaves between them. The pouch strapped to MacCready’s thigh presses against his leg. His arms fold closer in toward Deacon’s sides. Deacon swallows heavily and stares at the tin wall behind them.

“They’re heading into the corn stalks,” MacCready says quietly. 

Deacon breathes out. He takes a step back, slowly, in case they’re still being watched. MacCready’s hands fall away. 

He looks a little ridiculous, now that Deacon can see his handiwork, and that helps clear Deacon’s head a bit. The leather jacket is still too big on him. The beanie crushes most of his hair beneath it, but makes his goatee and mustache stand out a little oddly. It also makes his jawline even more striking, along with the flushing red shells of his ears. His whole face is flushed, actually, and… and now Deacon knows what that feels like against his palms. 

“Okay, uh,” he says quickly, clearing his throat and fumbling in his pocket for his sunglasses. “We should head for Nick’s.”

“Thought you said Nick’s was out,” MacCready says, his voice a little rough. He drops his eyes, scratching at his temple where the beanie rests.

“They already checked it, they won’t waste the time again,” Deacon says. “You stay there, I’ll get our stuff from the Dugout. We’ll lay low for a bit.” 

“All right,” MacCready says. 

“Just walk close, keep the charade up a little if they look over,” Deacon says. They stroll toward the gate.

“I can’t believe that worked,” MacCready says as they pass through.

“Told you to trust me,” Deacon says, trying to sound more confident than he feels. “No one wants to look too close at two people making out in broad daylight. Never fails.” 

“Oh? You do it often?” MacCready says, raising his eyebrows.

Deacon busies himself straightening his jacket to hide how much the question catches him off guard. “No, but I spend a lot of time in back alleys.”

MacCready snorts as they turn down the corridor that leads to Nick’s. “Fair enough. I—that is—not a tactic I would’ve thought of.”

He pauses in front of the door, turning toward Deacon. His eyes flicker up to Deacon’s face, then away. “Thank you. For all of that. You didn’t have to.”

“I mean, it was quite the imposition, not leaving you to get your head mounted on a pike, but I managed,” Deacon says. 

MacCready rolls his eyes, but when he looks at Deacon again, his gaze lingers. 

Deacon digs his hands into his pockets, shifting his shoulders. “We should, uh—” He points to the door with his elbow.

“Right, yeah,” MacCready says, turning to reach for the knob.

When this is over, Deacon thinks, his eyes falling on MacCready’s fingers where they curl around the doorknob, he is going to take his own ass out back and kick it, since the Gunners didn’t manage to do it for him. He is _such_ an idiot.

Inside, Nick’s leaning on the edge of his desk, one foot crossed over the other. “Figured you couldn’t be far behind,” he says. “These guys are like a bad infection, huh? Just when you think you’re over the worst of it…”

“You have no idea,” MacCready says. He pulls the beanie off, his hair splaying wildly around his head. He reaches up to smooth it. Deacon looks away this time. Ellie Perkins appears from around the corner with two glasses of water. She holds one out to Deacon with a nod.

“What’d they want?” Nick asks. “Guy came in spinning some story about how you were old friends and he owed you money, and wanted to know if you’d been by.”

“With friends like those…” Deacon murmurs into the water glass. MacCready sighs next to him, accepting the other glass from Ellie.

“Sorry to get you roped into this,” he says to Nick. “Best guess? They want my head on a platter. For Quincy, or Bullet, or Winlock and Barnes, or all the above. Who knows?”

Nick waves him off. “He wasn’t even the worst thug I’ve seen this week,” he says. “But uh, sounds like you might wanna keep a low profile for awhile.”

“I’m headed to Jamaica Plain,” MacCready says. “Settlement call. I don’t think it can wait.” He swings a thumb at Deacon. “He’s got… uh, business.”

Nick nods. “Maybe you ought to stay here for the night. Let them think you’ve moved on. If they don’t know where, and they don’t find you around town, they’ll probably give up. It’ll be a little cramped, but as long as you don’t mind that.”

“What, no mints on the pillow?” Deacon smirks.

“Don’t push your luck,” Nick says with a laugh.

\----

By the time Deacon drags their packs back from the Dugout, the sky is growing dark behind the lingering clouds, and the stadium lights are starting to pop to life over the marketplace and the Wall. He sweeps the market, and wanders a few of the back alleys, listening for the voices he’d heard earlier, and watching for flashes of army green. He gives up when his stomach growls angrily on his second pass around the stalls.

Nick points him to the rooftop when Deacon pushes back through his door balancing two bowls of Takahashi’s finest. Deacon climbs up to find MacCready perched on an outcropping, knees folded beneath him, smoking the last stub of a cigarette. He’s watching what’s left of the afternoon crowd drain out of the market. Deacon elbows him to get his attention, and MacCready takes one last drag before snuffing the cigarette out on the tin beneath him. Deacon hands the bowls up and then crawls up to sit beside him. 

“No sign of them,” Deacon says as MacCready passes one of the bowls back. Deacon pulls two pairs of chopsticks from his pocket. He takes a deep breath of the steam wafting up from his lap, his stomach rumbling again with the promise of garlic noodles and brahmin meat.

“Nothing from here, either,” MacCready says. He fits the chopsticks to his fingers. Rather than digging in, though, he just looks at Deacon for a moment. “Hey, you’re, um. Really good at this. The—you know, quick disguise stuff. Faking them out. I almost lost you in the crowd when you did the wig thing.”

Deacon swallows a mouthful of noodles, nearly burning his tongue. God, _worth it_, though, for the salty sweet tang of onion broth bursting over his tongue. “And you only argued with me like three times. We’re all hitting high notes today.”

“Come on, I’m being serious,” MacCready says, circling his chopsticks in his bowl. “I didn’t get it before, when I saw you in disguise in Goodneighbor, and you said that stuff about playing a role. I thought… I don’t know. That it was proof we couldn’t trust you, and you had something to hide. That you’d just lie, or at least try to obscure the truth, or something.” He looks up from his lap. “I was wrong.”

Deacon shrugs one shoulder. “You’re not the first. You won’t be the last. Half of the—of my, uh, coworkers think the same.” He jabs at a piece of meat with the end of his chopstick. “I _am_ a liar. I do obscure the truth. I make no secret of it.” 

“Yeah, but…” MacCready’s brow pinches in as he looks off toward the market. The distant sound of laughter floats by them from somewhere below. Percy’s voice echoes up from beneath the circle of awnings, hawking old globes and broken telephones, and knocking into Myrna’s little tin can wind chime. (Deacon knows that’s not what it is. He doesn’t care.)

MacCready turns back to him. “You’re not trying to hurt people when you do all that. You’re trying to protect them.” He starts picking at his food again. “I think I get it now.” 

Deacon goes still. He bites the inside of his cheek, watching MacCready’s hands move as he lifts a pile of noodles to his lips. Deacon finds himself thinking of those hands passing through the street light outside the Rexford, striking a match. He thinks of the hard look in MacCready’s eyes, the bitter set of his lips, the night he saw Deacon in disguise.

“Doesn’t mean people don’t get hurt anyway,” Deacon says quietly.

The faint clinking of the tin cans reaches them again, this time from a passing breeze that ruffles MacCready’s hair a little. Deacon busies himself with his bowl. 

“Listen, what I’m trying to say,” MacCready starts again after a moment, “is that I shouldn’t have been so… crappy, before. About what you do. The only reason I made it out of this today was you, and all your tricks. So, thank you.” 

Deacon gives him a small smile. “All in a day’s work for the Mistress of Mystery.”

MacCready shakes his head as he chews on a chunk of meat. His gaze turns thoughtful. “Were you actually a woman for awhile, or were you just bullshi—making that up?”

“No, that was true,” Deacon says. “Startled a lot of people at HQ. Not as bad as the time I was a ghoul, though. Got kicked out completely for that one, for a little while.”

MacCready pauses half-way through lifting another bite. “For real?”

Deacon nods. “It took a lot of work, and a lot of makeup, to maintain. And in the end it drew more attention than I was going for.” He stirs the broth a little, idly. “Still kinda proud I pulled it off, though.”

MacCready gives a low whistle. “And that kind of thing helps the—” He stops, glancing around, and lowers his voice. “The Railroad?”

“I mean, it can help me get intel,” Deacon says, “which helps them in turn. And the face changes keep me semi-anonymous, especially if too many people have seen me up close. I need to be able to blend in, go unnoticed, or I’m not really doing my job.”

MacCready’s eyes slide away, back down to his lap. “Are you going to do one after… all this?” 

Deacon hears what he doesn’t say. _After living in Sanctuary? After traveling with us?_

“I don’t know,” he says. It surprises him how true it is. The thought of it had been his only comfort when he’d first started this whole mission: the promise he could disappear again, in a sense. Be forgotten. Erase whatever traces of himself he left behind, by erasing the person that left them. Now, the thought of it conjures that shuttered expression on MacCready’s face back in Goodneighbor, and puts Deacon off the rest of his noodles. Shit, add one more to the list of things he can feel himself compromising. Another thing he shouldn’t—

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees MacCready’s hand release his chopsticks and lift. Deacon turns his head in time to get his cheek pinched. He ducks back in surprise, sloshing broth onto his jeans, and MacCready laughs.

“You should keep this one,” he says when his laughter dies down. His smile fades, and he drops his hand. Softly, he adds, “It’s a good one.”

Deacon has to look away at that. His face feels hot, and his neck feels hot, and his stomach does some kind of weird swoop he aggressively ignores. “I’ll send the doc your compliments,” he mumbles to the bowl in his lap.

There’s some clattering on the next rooftop over. Deacon straightens a little, but deflates with a sigh when a grey cat he recognizes as Arturo’s leaps into view, perching itself on the roof edge. It stares at the two of them for a moment, then seems to lose interest and begins licking its paw to clean behind its ears. 

“Anyway,” MacCready finally says, “like I was saying, I—know I owe you. A lot. Not just for today. And I’m not going to forget it. I’ll find a way to pay you back.”

Deacon looks away from the cat, squinting in confusion. “Bobby, you don’t—you don’t owe me. We’re not balancing scales here.”

“I do owe you. I owe you my damn… I owe you my life. And I pay my debts, all right? I keep things square.” He fishes one last bite of noodles out of his bowl.

“Right, yeah, I guess I should’ve mentioned that I charge a hundred caps per daring rescue,” Deacon says flatly. “Plus interest. I’ll be including the cost of the beanie on the bill.”

“You’re under-charging. But come on, you know what I mean,” MacCready says as he swallows.

Deacon sets his bowl aside. “I don’t, actually. Look, this may shock you, try not to faint, but I like you. So, stay with me now, I don’t actually want to see you get hurt.”

“Deacon—”

“MacCready.” Deacon mimics, exasperated. He reaches up and pulls off his sunglasses. That, at least, seems to shut MacCready up. 

“We’re not keeping score,” Deacon continues. “Buy me a beer sometime if this is going to be a thing with you. And I promise that you’ll be the first one I call if I go tumbling off a rooftop in turn, all right?”

MacCready looks at him for a long moment. Enough that Deacon has to fight the urge to fidget. Then he sighs, rubbing anxiously at the hair on his chin. “Just… the right thing to do?”

Deacon reaches over and pulls one of the chopsticks out of his bowl. He waves it in the air like a wand, the way he’d seen some witch in an old movie do it. “Bibbity bobbity boo, you are hereby absolved of all debts to one, Deacon, Captain Super Spy of the Commonwealth.” He makes sloppy figure eights in the air until he gets MacCready to crack a smile. Then he tosses the chopstick back into the bowl.

“I’m afraid that sort of magic is permanent,” he says. “Irreversible. It’s out of my hands now.”

“You’re such a dork,” MacCready says, looking like he’s fighting down a grin. 

“Says the man with the bigger comic book collection than me,” Deacon says. He looks down to find his sunglasses, and slides them back over his nose. When he raises his head again, he finds MacCready watching him with a strange expression on his face. It’s hard to tell in the weird, orangey light reflecting up through the canvas awnings, but Deacon thinks MacCready’s neck might be turning a little pink.

“What?” Deacon says.

MacCready shakes his head. “Nothing.” 

As night settles in around them, the last lines of blue light on the horizon swallowed by the clouds, neither of them makes a move to leave. They let the silence stretch between them, and watch the market slowly empty.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ETA: APOLOGIES I had to do a quick edit because I realized I briefly referenced a scene in this that I ultimately cut out and forgot that I cut out. Sorry if anyone found it confusing.
> 
> OKAY SO I LIKE TROPES. SUE ME.
> 
> 1) So one of the head canons I had for Deacon long before I started writing this is that he's low key a bit of a hoarder if he gets too comfortable somewhere. Well, okay, that's extreme. Just someone who holds on to a lot of sentimental trinkets. Is this based entirely on the "I love Old World widgets" comment? Maybe. 
> 
> 2) I really enjoy poking fun at the unchanging game-assigned wardrobe of characters. I know realistically they don't have to be wearing the same thing all the time, and I have let MacCready out of that coat here and there in this story. But I also totally believe he just wears that same stuff all the time and doesn't see the point in changing it, he likes it, it's fine, what's the problem? 
> 
> 3) I've been absolutely chomping at the bit to find an excuse for Deacon to do a quick change in a crowd. I may or may not have come up with this entire scenario solely for that purpose. And then realized how it could end. Cannot confirm or deny any evil laughter that followed.
> 
> Chapter 12 surprised the hell out of me by coming together really quickly. The draft is finished barring final edits and it'll go up once I have a draft for Chapter 13. Without spoiling anything, that's going to be a tricky one to write, so I thank you for your patience with me in advance.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It is time, once again, for a midnight self-discovery panic attack. Also to get on an assignment and totally go back to normal, this is fine, what could possibly go wrong?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This has to be a record for me, because this technically makes three updates in one month's time. We're getting into it now, friends. I don't want to say too much up front. As always, **serenityfails** is my patron saint of beta work, and my rock. 
> 
> Warnings: The first scene has a prolonged panic attack. Graphic description of corpses from "Deacon creeps into the alleyway" to "He stills, and listens." There's briefly graphic descriptions of blood and gore throughout that scene. The final few scenes all have strong, specific description of pain after a character gets shot and breaks a rib. They are not shot through, and there's no blood, just pain. There are very brief and subtle hints to past drug dependence.

Deacon was ten years old the first time he read an _Unstoppables_ comic. He’d been working his way steadily through a whole shelf of comics in the library, all tucked in plastic sleeves. He remembers the day he found it: the sun was streaming in through the miraculously in-tact windows, right down onto a reading table in the heart of the room, like an invitation. He wore his favorite t-shirt. Hunter green, one size too big, with Grognak the Barbarian plastered across the chest in faded print. There was a hole in the armpit his mother hadn’t noticed yet. He doesn’t remember where they found it. But he remembers pressing the plastic sleeve against it and marching to the table, where he reverently pulled the tab open. He slid the comic free, and a weird paper circle with another, smaller circle attached tumbled out from between the pages. There were letters all around the inner circle, and numbers on the outer, like a border. In the very center, in smaller print, were the words “Hubris Comics Decoder Ring.” 

He remembers scouring the library for scrap paper, and fishing an old pencil out of a dusty desk drawer. Then he sat at that table for an hour, painstakingly unraveling every cryptogram on the comic’s last page, before he even tried to read the comic itself. He turned the ring round and round until he got it right, until words emerged from the blocks of numbers. He doesn’t remember what it said. He just remembers the triumphant feeling of finishing, uncovering the secret message, like it was there just for him. 

(He kept that decoder ring for years. Even tried selling Wyatt on using it for the dead drops, until they found an old electronics store with a stash of working tape recorders and a few sleeves of holotapes, unopened. The ring was one of the few things he’d taken when he’d left his farm behind. Then it burned in their Farm, along with everything else, and wasn’t that fitting.)

He’s not sure why he’s thinking of it now, as he lays on the floor of Nick’s office, wrapped in his bedroll. Maybe because he wishes he had one for his own thoughts. For his life, really, right now. Everything about it. Okay, one thing about it. He stares up at the wood grain of the stairs over his head, the pattern swirling across the surface like smoke. Which makes him think of cigarettes. Which makes him think of MacCready. Which does weird things to his chest and his stomach and… for Christ’s _sake_.

MacCready’s asleep in the bed next to Deacon, or trying to be. Deacon can hear his breathing, even and quiet, as he lays on his side. The borrowed leather jacket sits on his pack in the corner, along with his collection of armor and belts. He’s down to just the long-sleeved green shirt. If Deacon lifts his neck a little, he can see it stretching across MacCready’s shoulder blades. He has one hand resting on his hip, the hand that had slid under Deacon’s jacket hours before, slow and deliberate. The skin above Deacon’s tailbone tingles a little. Deacon closes his eyes and swallows.

He’s not a complete idiot, all evidence to the contrary. He’s dealt with desire. He knows how it feels. He’s not a stranger to stumbling, kiss-drunk, into inn rooms he’ll barely remember the inside of, or to aching knees scraping on old concrete in a back alley, or to dirt stains on the back of his shirt. He doesn’t make a habit of it, but it happens. He remembers their faces, because he always remembers faces. Names he never learns, because he’d remember those too. Sometimes it’s a mark. Sometimes it’s a whim. Sometimes it’s just stupid. It never matters. He’s never _wanted_ it to matter. 

It’d be easier if he could keep believing that’s all it is. Just a passing appreciation for good bone structure and fitted belts and a quick, sharp smile. But the problem with being a good liar is _knowing_ that you’re a good liar. He’s never really been able to lie to himself, no matter how hard he tries (and tries, and tries). Not in a way that ever fucking lasts. And somewhere in the back of his head, paper circles are turning and turning. Letters and numbers slot into place.

This?

This might… kinda… maybe… matter.

And for a moment he feels the satisfying flush of relief that solving the puzzle always brings. Then the tide pulls out and crashes back down on top of him, wave after wave after wave of pure, undiluted panic.

He lifts his hands, and presses them over his face. He breathes in against his palms, then pushes the air back out slowly, through his nose. Breathes in, and feels his chest pull tight. Breathes out. And for just a moment, Nick’s office sinks away, and Deacon remembers what it felt like to sit on the floor of the first Railroad HQ he ever knew, panting through his panic. He sat on that floor with greasy red curls clinging to his forehead and red-rimmed eyes and dirty, red-flecked fingernails. And he breathed in against the skin of his hands, to smell the faintest tang of copper, and remember it was real. It doesn’t slow his breathing now like it used to. 

Deacon’s eyes slide open again. Count the details, he tells himself. Focus on what’s around. He sees the whirling lines of wood grain above his head once more. He hears MacCready shifting, and Ellie snoring, and the soft scratch of Nick’s pen as he writes at his desk, one room over. Deacon raises his hands to hover over his head. He stares through the dim shadows at the lines that fork across his palms. _Don’t look down._

His fingers curl into fists, and he drops them to the floor. Yes, he knows what this is. He’s felt like this before, a long, long time ago. And it had gotten her killed. It had cost him everything. And every time he thought maybe, maybe he’d done enough to earn a little good back in his life after all that, something else had been stripped from him. Another friend, another home. When he learned how to have nothing to lose, he thought of it as a cure. A solution.

So how, knowing the price of investment, the cost of caring, did he end up here? How could he have let this happen?

Deacon looks over at the bed again. MacCready’s turned back over, one arm tucked under the pillow and the other resting along his side. Deacon can just see part of his face, angled as it is toward the pillow. There’s a few strands of hair tumbling across his temple, close to his eye. Deacon wants to reach up and brush them back. He wants to press his palm to MacCready’s cheek again. He wants…

He wants to never, ever let him close enough to get hurt. Because he’s not going to watch someone else get shot in the head for the crime of mattering to him.

Deacon twists onto his side, turning his back to the bed. His chest is so tight it aches. The burn of it clogs his throat. He tries to smother his uneven breathing by clamping a hand over his mouth. His pulse begins to race, pounding like a fist against the cage of his ribs. 

What the fuck is he supposed to do with this?

No matter how hard he’d tried to talk himself out of it and remind himself of the danger and command himself to keep his distance, something kept pulling him back in. There’s something magnetic about MacCready, and the way the two of them fit together: in battle, in banter, in bullshit life experience. (In body, too, because he can’t help but think it: the way his hands fit to MacCready’s jaw, the way MacCready’s hands fit in the dip of his spine. _Fuck_.) He just… he puts Deacon at ease, like no one has in years, like he hasn’t let anyone close enough to do in years. He doesn’t know what to do with that.

He curls into a tighter ball, drawing his knees up, in the vain hope it’ll loosen the knot in his chest. He’s kept himself quiet enough that MacCready hasn’t stirred, and Nick hasn’t come to peek curiously around the corner. But it feels like the anxiety’s going to burst out of his fingertips and his eye sockets and the pads of his feet. His whole body throbs with it. It feels too violent to contain.

_God, Deacon, fucking breathe._

One little crush shouldn’t spin him out of control this hard. He doesn’t even know what MacCready feels. Attraction, sure, that much is obvious, but there’s a wide gulf between attraction and… affection. But even the thought of Deacon alone feeling this way for someone again makes his whole head fill with alarm bells, shrill and wild. All he can see is Barbara, bleeding into the soil. All he can think about is the wolfish way the Claws smiled at him as they held him down and pulled the trigger. And he’s hunted by far more clever and fearsome and ruthless things now than he was then. So it doesn’t matter if MacCready doesn’t feel the same. If they ever catch Deacon, or if they’re already watching him, and they find out who means something to him? He’s seen it before. Seen agents who dared to have lovers, families, come back hollow-eyed and broken from a visit home. If they came back at all.

And somewhere in the Wasteland, there’s a sick little boy waiting for his father. Deacon will be damned if MacCready doesn’t get to hold that boy again.

Pushing MacCready away once hadn’t worked. But maybe if Deacon finds a better excuse. Finds work to bury himself in. Maybe that’s what he’s about to be handed. He doesn’t have to push MacCready away again, just… avoid him, for a while. Find reasons. Make reasons. Let this die down. Ignore that it’s the last thing he really wants to do.

He hears MacCready shift again behind him and sigh softly. Deacon closes his eyes. This is the only thing he _can_ do. If he can’t stop himself from falling, at least he doesn’t have to drag MacCready down with him.

\----

It’s not the relief it should be when the back door to HQ shuts behind him the next day. He doesn’t look too closely at that. He’d left MacCready in Goodneighbor after a blessedly Gunner-free walk from Diamond City. And then he’d gone on alone, feeling strange, and off-balance. He’s only been traveling with MacCready for a month. He’s been traveling alone for years. This is getting, frankly, ridiculous. 

He passes beneath the fluorescent lights, past the sparse metal shelves of supplies shoved against the wall. He walks by the old mattresses in the corner where Carrington dozes on his back, his lab coat off and his tie loose. Deacon emerges into the main room and finds it unusually quiet, save for the tapping of typewriter keys from Drummer Boy at one end and the tapping of computer keys from Tinker Tom on the other. Desdemona leans heavily on her war table in between, shoulder blades jutting up toward her ears. There’s a cigarette between the fingers of her right hand, and the smoke curls up her arm and into the air.

“There you are,” she says, turning when she hears his footsteps. She looks tired, and disheveled. Her hair hangs limp and frizzy around her face.

“Hold the applause,” he says, spreading his hands. She doesn’t roll her eyes, but the look she gives him has the same energy.

“Dea-_con_! My man!” Tom calls from across the room. His helmet wobbles on his head as he looks up, waving his whole arm like Deacon’s not going to see him standing in the middle of a wide open room with the equivalent of a satellite dish strapped over his ears.

“Hey buddy,” Deacon says, nodding. “Pick up any new radio frequencies with that thing yet?” 

“Man, I keep telling you—” Tom launches into a rant that involves the words “antenna” and “static interference.” Deacon smirks as Desdemona immediately cuts in, talking over him. Tom just keeps rambling to himself in the background. 

“I need you to do a run,” she says. She levels Deacon with a serious look, pulling her cigarette to her lips. Deacon’s grin slowly fades.

“I’m fine, thanks for asking,” he says. Her face doesn’t even twitch. He sighs. “Why me? I thought you wanted me on Minutemen babysitting duty.”

“Glory’s on a job for Griswold. Bullseye said he has to go placate the Brotherhood so they don’t start sniffing around Quincy and swing too close to Randolph. I’ve got a runner on Stanwix and a runner on Ticon. No one else is ready for a heavy job,” she says. “Patriot is running us ragged. What’s the status on Mercer?”

“Mercer?” Deacon repeats. He glances at the chalkboard behind her, finds it written up on the list in her hasty scrawl. “Is that what we’re calling—”

“Yes.”

“I think Bullseye’s done some preliminary work, started repairing the building,” Deacon says. “But most of his people had to go to Quincy.” He wonders why she hadn’t asked Anthony directly. He’d clearly been here, if she’d had him summon Deacon back. But then again, maybe she was doing the thing where she kept asking the same question of different people until they cottoned on that she wanted a better answer and they were expected to find it. It feels familiar, in a way that’s oddly kind of comforting. 

Desdemona’s nodding as he finishes. “We need to accelerate the timeline on that. For now, we need to move a couple packages from Bunker Hill to Dayton. Stockton will meet you and Orion at sundown. There’s a dead drop with the location. You know the drill.”

She turns back to the papers she has spread out on her makeshift table, slipping the cigarette back into her mouth. When she bends her head, Deacon can see the dark circles carved deep beneath her eyes. There’s an ashtray to one side of the table littered with cigarette butts. 

“Dez,” he says quietly, tilting his head a little to catch her eye. “When’s the last time you slept?” 

She pauses. She doesn’t look at him. Instead she bows her head, and lets out a long sigh, smoke billowing out around her. “If you have questions about my judgment, I’ve already had an earful.” Her eyes cut toward the back tunnel, where Carrington lays sleeping. 

Deacon follows her gaze. He frowns, and then looks back at her again. “Just one. How have you managed not to strangle him yet?” 

It gets her to crack the tiniest hint of a smirk. She takes another drag, and relaxes her shoulders a little. “Because I’m not eager to put Tinker’s claims he can ‘definitely figure out surgery’ to the test.” 

Deacon chuckles, and she does smirk this time, finally raising her eyes. Deacon bumps her shoulder with his. “We’ll make it through this, Dez. We’ve done more than ever this year. We have Bullseye now. It’ll get better.” 

“When did you become such an optimist?” she says, tapping her cigarette over the ashtray.

“When I watched a 200 year old man walk out of a Vault ready to save the world,” Deacon says. “Well, to get a nice running start at it, anyway.” 

She nods distantly, and takes another drag. After a moment, she says, “You’d better get going.” 

Deacon squeezes her shoulder. Then he turns, and moves to sit himself down on the edge of Drummer Boy’s desk. Drummer Boy stops mid-keystroke on the typewriter as Deacon says, “All right Drum Solo, drop the beat.” 

Drummer Boy squints at him. “Only if you promise to never say that to me again.” 

“Jesus, it’s like a fucking funeral in here,” Deacon sighs. He accepts the folded note Drummer Boy hands him.

“We’re mourning your sense of humor,” Drummer Boy responds coolly. He resumes typing. Deacon shakes his head, unfolding the paper as he heads for the back hallway.

He walks past Carrington again and pauses. He’s tempted to pretend to trip over the mattress, but that’ll just be taking a match to a temper already doused in gasoline. And put the heat directly back on Desdemona. So Deacon looks to the shelves again. If he’s going to be doing a run Dez wanted to send a heavy on, then this is a job for kevlar and shoulder pads. He helps himself to the spare armor lining the shelves, and heads for the door.

\----

It’s unnervingly silent in the Bridgeway Trust building as Deacon waits for the sun to sink. Because of course the minute he decides to bury himself in work, they send him somewhere he can hear himself think. He drops into a leather chair near the entrance that squeaks loudly every time he shifts his ass. He sighs and props his feet up on the chair next to him, sending a cloud of dust into the air, and tries to stay still. 

A few stairs beyond where he sits lead down to an open area with a faded rug. A bank teller’s counter stands in the center of the room, in front of a very intimidating giant metal door. It’s got a huge wheel on it and everything. The light from the frosted glass windows is dwindling, but he can make out skeletons splayed across the floor, and the scrap parts of a shredded robot scattered among them. The light reflects oddly off the dingy plastic.

Okay, so it’s sink into an endless thought spiral about his stupid feelings, or stare at an unnerving pile of bones and an ominous bank vault door. Wonderful. He ignores both, shutting his eyes beneath his shades, and tries to think through the route to Dayton.

It’s one of the older safehouses; well, old by Railroad standards. More accurate to say it’s lasted longer. They’ve had it on the roster since before they had to abandon the Beast and move HQ to Switchboard. It’s on part of the route that belonged to another safehouse, back when Deacon was still a runner. What was the name? Mar-something. Marion, maybe. He’d run the route a few times before they lost the house to a Courser attack. And he’d netted them an ally doing that run, another thing that had outlasted more than a couple HQs and safehouses. Slim was a ghoul that made a home for himself in an abandoned garage, and sold chems in the courtyard outside it. He’d been a decent informant, slipping Deacon information he got from the raiders that slowly took over the old school across the alley from him. They left him alone as long as his supply was steady. And Deacon knew, intimately, that that supply was good. Slim let them run Dayton’s route through his little courtyard, too, once they’d found a decent enough place to call Dayton. But the Gunners pushing in down the street had complicated things. And Deacon trying to clean up his act definitely complicated things. So he’d stopped visiting almost altogether.

He pushes that thought away and follows the thread of the route through the map in his head. Up the street from Bridgeway, turn before that weird pharmaceutical company at the end of the line. Weave around the raiders squatting in the neighborhood on the next block. Slip into the back alley behind Mass Bay Medical, hopefully catching the Gunners sleeping and the raiders at the school busy. Sneak through Slim’s hovel, around the edge of the highway, and up the road to the house slouching on the roadside. Fuck, he’d forgotten what a bitch this route had become. No wonder Dez wouldn’t leave it to the rookies.

His thoughts snag a little on Desdemona, on the stretched-thin look of her as she gripped the table, and the papery, pale skin of her cheeks. It’s not the first time he’s seen her like that. She tended to avoid sleeping when things got busy, or dicey, standing at her table like the captain at the wheel of a ship, glaring out at the storm on the horizon. (He doesn’t remember which book that image comes from, just remembers his awe at the idea of anyone braving a body of water so huge as a sea, or an ocean.) Deacon usually hung around to pester her into a nap on days like that, or to drop a bowl of cereal or a plate of sliced mutfruit in the middle of the papers she was staring at. And if Deacon couldn’t be around, Glory usually took up the bullying in his stead. With neither of them there this time, and Carrington pushing her buttons besides…

Deacon feels an uncomfortable curl of guilt in his stomach. Which is, shockingly, not an improvement on the panic he’s still trying to keep a lid on. While he’s in Sanctuary cooking meals and playing poker, Desdemona’s dodging waves on the deck of a sinking ship. Like he needed more proof his priorities were slipping.

He nearly jumps out of his chair when one of the double doors in front of him creaks open. He straightens, dropping his feet to the floor. The chair whines loudly beneath him. Old Man Stockton’s black trilby bobs into view, and he holds the door open for two women that step uneasily inside. Deacon can’t make out their features well in the dim, except pale skin tinged blue in the fading light, and dark hair. Stockton quietly closes the door, and Deacon stands.

“I was expecting Glory,’ he says, looking Deacon up and down. 

Deacon squints through his sunglasses, feeling vaguely insulted. Yeah, all right, he wasn’t exactly a sharpshooter, but it’s not like they’d sent Drummer Boy. “We’re a little short-handed.” 

Stockton just sighs through his nose and moves to the table a few feet away, plucking a candle Deacon hadn’t noticed off of it. He strikes a match he pulls from his pocket, and lights it, lifting the flame toward the women huddled behind him. 

“This is K6-33.” The woman with the shorter hair, that Deacon can now see is tinged red, lifts a nervous hand and waves a few fingers. 

“And that is N5-13.” The woman next to K6 has longer, darker, curlier hair. She’s wearing a tank top in deference to the heat, and her arms look like they could bend steel. She lifts her head as Stockton introduces her and just glowers at Deacon, chin high. 

“Ladies, this is…” Stockton pauses, the flame leaning sharply as he turns to look back at Deacon, pointing vaguely. 

Because he is wearing sunglasses and no one will see it anyway, Deacon rolls his eyes. “Deacon.”

“Right, right. He’ll help you from here,” Stockton says. He carries the candle to the window near the doors, and sets it on the window sill. Then he turns back to the women. “Remember, not a word.” His eyes dart to Deacon. “Good luck.” 

Then he pulls the front door back open, and leaves. 

Deacon looks over at the two synths. K6 fumbles for N5’s hand, shakily lacing their fingers together. God, it’d been so long since he’d done this. He’d almost forgotten what it was like, seeing synths fresh from the Institute. The jittering, rabbit-eyed fear, the rigid posture, the strange way they tended to speak: halting and formal and quiet. He sees the nervousness in the way K6 keeps fidgeting, resettling her fingers in N5’s grip, her head rotating around to take in the bank building around her. But if N5 is afraid, she shows no sign. Her eyes are hard and cold, and she squares her jaw. She reminds him so much of Glory.

“We’ll get you to safety,” he says softly, more for K6’s benefit. “We’ll get you free.”

K6’s eyes jump to him. She nods, too many times, and rocks on her heels, jerking N5’s hand. N5 just stares at Deacon. 

“Yes,” she finally says. “You will.”

Another few minutes pass before the door opens again, and Orion steps onto the threshold. A broad-shouldered man with dark skin and a gentle smile, he’d been Dayton’s safehouse owner as long as they’d had it. Which was quite the tenure for someone in his position. Flecks of grey pepper the short, tight curls on his head. He introduces himself quietly as Deacon blows out the candle.

Orion nods to him. “Shall we?”

\----

Deacon wasn’t always so compulsively paranoid. Even in the early days, after the gang had come after Barbara, when he was just starting on the Railroad’s roster. (Of course he’d killed the entire gang that killed her himself, and watched them burn to ash in his yard, and didn’t yet know what a Courser was. But still.) It was becoming a runner that sewed that particular seed—and fertilized, lit, and watered it to full, poisonous blossom. No matter how much Carrington grumpily denied it, everyone in the Railroad learned to look over their shoulder. But it’s the runners that learn the shape of the shadows. It’s the runners that learn the way light bends around invisible shoulders. It’s the runners that make enemies of sound and sunlight. It’s the runners that know the reasons the Railroad should be afraid. 

It’s been a very long time since Deacon’s done a package run. Not so long that he doesn’t remember the steps. His muscle memory kicks in almost immediately: keeping his head on a tight swivel, keeping his knees bent, keeping his fingertip poised on the trigger. He remembers to keep his eyes moving in triangles. Look first to the ground for cracks in the pavement, loose gravel, fresh mud—anything that will make a sound; look second to any source of light, to find the edge of the shadow; and look third to the sides, for any sudden movement. He keeps his sunglasses in the pocket of his coat, so he doesn’t miss even the slightest shift in the darkness. He walks in the lead, with the synths between him and Orion. He doesn’t look back to make sure they follow. They follow or they die. 

It’s hard not to come out of a job like this with paranoia by the bucketful. By the time he became an agent, it wasn’t a habit. It was an instinct. And he likes to think it’s served him well. He can take some exasperated ribbing for it when he’s proven its worth time and again. It was paranoia that made him start planning evacuation routes at every HQ. Paranoia created the dead drops. Paranoia created the code phrases, and the Freedom Trail, and the puzzle lock in the catacombs. It was paranoia that kept them alive.

And isolated. And withdrawn. And afraid. 

But that’s beside the point.

So when Deacon presses himself flat to the stone wall of a building and peeks around the corner, and finds himself staring not at the Gunner guard patrol he expects but at a scattering of limp, bloody bodies, he’s immediately on edge. Something took out all of them at once. Something that may or may not still be nearby.

“Stay here,” he whispers to N5, who’s pressed to the wall behind him. Orion, overhearing, moves immediately to the front of their little line, and waits. 

Deacon creeps into the alleyway. The first of the Gunners is sprawled on the ground, his rifle flung far out of reach. There’s a widening pool of blood beneath his head, crawling into the crevices of the pavement below. Still bleeding. So not dead long. The man’s eyes stare blankly up at the night sky. There's a single gunshot wound in the very center of his forehead.

It’s not uncommon to hear gunfire all around you as you wind through the shadows of Boston at night. It’ll echo all through the empty, broken shells of skyscrapers and corner stores and apartment complexes. You keep your ears open for it as you go, sure, and how loud and close it is. But you’d be on the street all night if you stopped for every gunshot you heard, and the point was to fucking _move_. So the distant gunfire, there and gone as they’d slipped along the sidewalks, hadn’t immediately set off alarm bells in his head.

Well, they’re ringing now.

This is a precision kill. Which means it’s time to assume there’s a Courser. Or someone just as dangerous. He lifts his head, squinting at two more bodies further down the road. Shots to the head, both of them. Blood had sprayed the back of the shredded truck they’d clearly been using as a guard post. There’s a few more bodies in the truck, and against it. All lifeless, and blood-soaked. Deacon stands carefully, stepping to the sidewalk and shoving his back to the building alongside it. He stills, and listens.

For a moment there’s nothing. Just the quiet groan of steel, shifting in the wind. A distant voice comes, too far away for Deacon to pull words from. And then, loud enough to be much, much too close, the sound of a sniper rifle firing a single shot. And then the shouting gets a lot louder. 

Deacon squares his shoulders. He adjusts his grip on Deliverer, and lifts it high. He looks back to see Orion watching him from the corner. Deacon holds his other hand up, low but clear. _Don’t follow._ Orion nods once, and keeps watching.

Deacon slides soundlessly to the corner of the building, as close to the edge as he dares. He slowly looks into the alley. 

He almost drops his gun.

Tucked behind the bare shelter of a subway station entryway stands MacCready. He’s got his shoulder braced to the wall, and his rifle pressed to his chest. He’s still wearing Deacon’s leather jacket, but he’s put the hat back on, which is the first thing Deacon sees that tells him who it is. God dammit, MacCready, he’d _told_ him—

A spray of bullets pelts the stone inches from MacCready’s nose. MacCready shifts back a little further, and waits. Deacon can’t make out his expression. The second the rain of bullets stops, MacCready leans out, lifts the scope, and takes a shot. There’s a strangled cry. He shifts the gun, and lines up another shot. Then, Deacon sees movement ahead. Someone in dark clothes runs into the alleyway, and he can see the glint of a machete raised high overhead. MacCready takes another shot at the roof, then turns the gun. But Deacon’s already aiming. He drops the assailant with a clean shot to the chest. MacCready whips around, and their eyes meet.

MacCready pulls back around the wall and hisses, “Deacon?!”

Deacon gives him a one-handed salute, then leans back further out of sight. He hears a bullet hit the cobblestone somewhere between them. Footsteps follow, and he catches sight of two more raiders barreling out of the same side gate as the first. Deacon takes a shot at the one on the right, and it lands at the shoulder. MacCready drops the one on the left, then fires again at the other, and they both collapse in a pile of loose, bent limbs.

“What are you doing here?” MacCready says in a loud whisper.

Deacon surveys the ground, and what he can see of the school’s rooftop. He chances a dead run across the mouth of the alley, then backs up against the wall of the subway station. He waits another few seconds, looks out again, and then slips up behind MacCready in the little alcove. It’s a tight fit, and Deacon’s one shift of movement from being too visible, but it does pull him up close to MacCready’s side. Which is embarrassingly calming.

“Railroad business,” Deacon finally answers. He can just make out the eye roll he gets for that now that he’s close enough. 

“Yeah, I figured that much.”

“What are _you_ doing here?” Deacon says, risking another glance at the roof. “I thought there was a settlement—“

“Yeah,” MacCready says. He gestures toward the school with the barrel of the rifle. “These are the guys that have been harassing Jamaica Plains.”

“You’re going to take out the whole school by yourself?” Deacon whispers.

“Once I get through the camp outside. Can’t be much more of them, and I figured I had a decent chance of catching them sleeping if I came at night,” MacCready says with a shrug. Like it’s a normal thing normal people do all the time, going on a one man rampage through an entire camp of raiders. Deacon tamps down the knee-jerk instinct to offer his help. He can’t, not in the middle of run, but he could try to circle back after, and—and MacCready is a big boy who can take care of himself and make stupid decisions on his own. And took out an entire Gunner patrol with single shots.

More footsteps interrupt his thoughts. There’s some shouting and swearing, and then MacCready’s leaning out to line up another shot. Deacon waits. This close, he can hear the slow breath out, see the shift of MacCready’s shoulders as he pulls the trigger. Another choked off groan, another wet squelch, another silence. MacCready steps back again, and glances over his shoulder at Deacon. 

Deacon debates how much to tell him. “I’ve got... company. We need to pass through.”

MacCready slowly nods. “I’ll cover you.”

Deacon looks at him for a moment, then gives him a small smile. “Thank you.”

He carefully makes his way back to the others, still huddled down the block. He tells them the plan, and though Orion squints at the mention of a “friend,” he let’s Deacon lead them to the sidewalk back near the Gunner patrol. He hears a squeak and a cough behind him as they pass the body Deacon had examined earlier. When they reach the wall at the mouth of the alley, he glances back. K6 has one hand clamped over her mouth, the other tightly gripping N5’s hand. She looks ill.

“Don’t look down,” he tells her in a shrill whisper. She glances up at him, and just keeps panting into her hand. 

Deacon peeks into the alleyway again. MacCready hasn’t moved, his gaze fixed on the school. 

“Pssst,” Deacon hisses. MacCready turns his head, and gives him a thumbs up. 

Deacon turns back to Orion. “Straight run to Slim’s. I’ll take the rear.”

“Got it,” Orion says. He looks back at the synths. “Follow me.”

Deacon watches them creep over the cobblestone. Orion gives MacCready a nod as they pass, and MacCready nods back. The synths follow behind, N5 very nearly dragging K6 behind her. Deacon sweeps his eyes around for anyone following, then slips into the open, keeping Deliverer up. As his eyes keep curving around the alley, they land on MacCready again. MacCready gives him a little smile. 

“Be safe,” he whispers.

Deacon pauses to smile back. “Yeah, you t—“

He hears the pop of the gun one second too late. In the space of that second he feels a hit to his abdomen, sharp and sudden. The sheer force of it knocks him off his feet and sends him flying backward. He hears a loud crack. And then everything goes dark.

——

He wakes to voices. They’re frantic, but muffled, like he’s hearing them from under water. He feels hands on his face. He opens his eyes. Then he tries to take a breath.

And feels nothing but pain.

He cries out. He can’t help it. The pain lances violently through his torso, and blots his vision with stars. He gasps with it, sheer instinct, and it stabs through him again. Every breath he tries to take is excruciating.

It’s hard to think through it. He can’t figure out how to breathe without fire igniting all over his side, which is pushing him rapidly down the waterfall of panic, which makes him breathe harder, which sends another wave of pain through him. He’s dimly aware of voices, but he can’t follow them. There’s a throbbing in the back of his head, but even that is muted and distant. Faces, colors, and shapes pass in and out of his vision. His eyes can’t settle on them, and they blur and smear together. 

Something stings his side, and he cries out again, which fucking _hurts_. But then the sharp intensity of it slowly bleeds away. The pain is fresh, and raw, and still spreads like a grenade blast every time he draws a breath. But things slowly seem to settle into focus, and his thoughts seem to clear, a little. He realizes his eyes had been watering with the pain, and he blinks them clear. The first thing he sees is MacCready’s face leaning over his, tense and frightened. It’s his hands Deacon feels on his cheeks, he realizes. He’s saying something. The words shape themselves sluggishly in Deacon’s ears.

“—hear me? Come on, Deacon, stay with me.”

“Hear you,” Deacon tries to say, but it comes out more of a slurred groan through the burn of breathing in. He feels MacCready’s hands tighten, his brows bent in worry.

“Another one incoming,” he hears from somewhere near his hip. Then there’s another sting at his side. He moans, his voice breaking with it, but then a little more of the worst pain ebbs away. He feels the throbbing in his head become a little more pronounced. His eyes roll away from MacCready’s face to his other side. Slim leans into view, not looking at Deacon, but at his chest. Deacon feels some gentle pressure that makes him hiss and clench his teeth. 

“Didn’t go through,” Slim says. “Just barely. He’s not bleeding. But something’s probably broken.”

“Something?” MacCready says tightly.

“I’m not a doctor, man,” Slim says. 

MacCready sighs. Deacon keeps testing his breathing, finds that if he just takes short, quick breaths, it’s not nearly as bad. But god, his head is really starting to hurt, now. He grimaces as the throbbing graduates to pounding.

“Keep breathing, Deacon,” he hears MacCready say softly. Deacon lets his gaze wander back to him. He feels MacCready’s thumb stroke a gentle line over his cheekbone. Which would be making his chest ache for an entirely different reason if he had any room to think about it. 

“Hurts,” he murmurs, “to breathe.”

“Shit. Fuck,” MacCready grounds out. “If I’d seen that fucker—“

“No time for that now,” Orion’s voice interrupts, from somewhere beyond where Deacon can see. “We need to get him out of the alley before more of them come.”

MacCready bites his lip. “Yeah. Fuck. I’m sorry, Deacon, it’s going to hurt like a bitch but we need to get you up.”

“Language,” he forces out, wincing on the inhale. MacCready’s frown eases a little, just for a moment. 

Deacon tries to force himself to think through the pain. He feels out his arms, turns them palm down on the sidewalk. MacCready’s hands leave his face, and he moves out of sight, somewhere behind Deacon. Then Deacon feels a gentle grip on his shoulders. He steels himself, almost taking a deep breath before he remembers and keeps it shallow. It still hurts, and it takes him another moment to work up to pushing on the ground.

The strain makes something white hot sear across his side, and puts too much pressure on his head, and he collapses back almost immediately. He can’t stop himself from panting with the effort, and it’s too much. He groans. His vision swims a little.

“Don’t know if… I can…” he bites out, trying to choke down the scream building in his throat.

“Hang on,” Slim says. He slides out of view, and Deacon’s dimly aware of footsteps retreating. He closes his eyes, and tries to make himself take a few slow, shallow breaths. He hears rustling above him. MacCready looking around, maybe. Then, somewhere under the pain, Deacon feels a soft touch to his neck, trailing slowly under his jaw.

His eyes blink open. He tries to tilt his head, to see above him, but the movement sparks the throbbing again. 

Slim returns, sliding down onto his knees. “I got some Med-X. It ain’t gonna last very long, but it’ll dull the pain.”

Deacon frowns. “Wait—”

“I know how you feel about this, man,” Slim says. “But we gotta get you up. We gotta get them outta here.” He jerks a thumb over his shoulder.

Deacon gives himself the space of a few more quick, burning breaths to decide. A quiet whisper of fear slinks across the back of his mind. 

“Deacon,” MacCready says softly. His hands squeeze Deacon’s shoulders, and Deacon’s thoughts fall quiet. 

Deacon swallows. “Do it,” he whispers.

Slim nods. He looks over Deacon’s head. “Pull his sleeve up, will ya?”

More movement above him, and then Deacon can see the top of MacCready’s head. He feels the sleeve of his coat slide up over his elbow. MacCready’s fingers curl around the cuff to hold it up. Deacon shifts his gaze back up to the sky, makes himself count the stars he can see. He counts them through the feeling of something cold and wet being spread over his skin. He counts them through some kind of band being tied tightly around his bicep. He counts through a finger gently prodding at the center of his arm, counts until he feels a sudden sting. He grunts. It’s nothing on the pain in his side, and in his head. Eventually the band is tugged loose, the sting is gone. He feels a bandage pressing into his arm. He waits.

Slowly, slowly, the pain recedes. It doesn’t disappear, but it quiets into more of a sharp soreness. The ache in his head, too, seems to fade a little. He tries to take a deeper breath. It stings, but the pain doesn’t shock through him.

“All right, man. Up and at ‘em,” Slim says. Deacon hears MacCready shuffle back above his head again. Deacon presses his hands to the stone beneath him. His grits his teeth, and pushes.

Even with the Med-X, the pain flares sharply across his side again. He growls with it, but still heaves, and feels pressure on the back of his shoulders, pushing him up. Once he’s sitting upright he pauses, panting, hurting. His eyes sting a little.

“Come on, you can do this,” MacCready whispers somewhere near his ear. Deacon feels another reassuring squeeze to his shoulders.

It helps. A little. “Gonna need… help. With this part.” Deacon lifts a finger and points weakly upward.

“I’ve got you,” MacCready says.

Deacon bends his knees. Together they manage to haul him to his feet, though he can’t stifle a yell through the worst of it. He tips a little sideways, dizzy, and MacCready grabs his arm tightly.

“Jesus,” Deacon says. “Oh, fuck me.”

He tries to blink everything still around him. It takes a few tries. His head is so heavy, and so sore. But finally, the alley comes into focus, dark as it is, and then the warm glow of firelight spilling across the cobblestones from Slim’s hovel. Deacon sees Orion waiting at the entrance to it. His head darts up toward the rooftops every few seconds, gun ready. Slim waits near Deacon’s bad side, his hands hovering in front of him.

“Lean on me,” MacCready tells him, gently tugging Deacon’s arm up and ducking beneath it. His left arm wraps around Deacon’s back, careful to stay high enough not to hurt.

Deacon opens his mouth to make a joke, something about MacCready being too scrawny for this, but the vertigo hits again. He lets some of his weight fall against MacCready’s side, almost before he realizes he’s doing it. MacCready holds him fast, and doesn’t seem fazed. Christ, he’s so much stronger than he looks.

“Try a step,” MacCready says. 

“I… fuck. Okay.” Deacon gingerly steps forward. He winces, and his ears ring a little with the threat of vertigo, but the world doesn’t spin. He takes another step. MacCready moves with him, and he can see Slim following out of the corner of his eye.

It takes a few gratingly slow minutes that have all of them glancing nervously at the roof, and the yawning gap between buildings that opens onto the raider camp. But no one comes. If those inside the school had heard the gunshots, or Deacon’s cries, they hadn’t bothered to come investigate.

MacCready helps Deacon over to a beat-up couch situated under a small overhang. Sitting down onto it jostles him uncomfortably, and pain rattles through his chest before settling again. He looks down at his torso, now that he has the light of the makeshift trash can firepit to see by. There it is, below and left of his stomach: a bullet, embedded alarmingly deep in the torn vest. Holy absolute fuck. He reaches over with his right arm and tugs carefully, pulling the broken shell free. He lifts it up to eye level, and notices MacCready standing there, just a few feet from him, watching. He looks… Deacon doesn’t really have another word for it. He looks stricken. Deacon swallows again and lowers his hand, slipping the bullet casing into his pocket.

“So what now?”

It’s N5, frowning at them from behind one of the stone columns dotting the courtyard. K6 peers over her shoulder. Deacon starts to look for Orion, but feels a warning twinge at the back of his head when he tries to turn, and gives up. 

“You have to keep going,” Deacon says, when Orion doesn’t immediately answer. He sounds as rough and breathless as he feels. “I’m sorry, Orion. I’ll only slow you down.”

“But you need—” Orion starts.

“We can worry about me later,” Deacon says. “I’m not bleeding out.”

“There could be internal—”

“I’m fine,” Deacon says. But as he says it, he finds his eyes drifting back to MacCready, who still has that _look_ on his face.

“Shit,” Orion says. “We’re down a heavy, we’ll be slowed down anyway.”

“I was never much of a heavy to begin with,” Deacon says. “I’m sorry.”

“What’s a heavy?” MacCready cuts in. 

Deacon hesitates. He’s been open about a lot of the Railroad’s operations around MacCready, more than he probably should’ve been. But this is… this is the most important part of what they do. The most dangerous thing to know anything about.

“How much does he know, Deacon?” Orion says.

Deacon looks at MacCready for a long moment. Then he sighs, stiffening when it sends a short burst of pain across his ribs. “A heavy is a protector. A guard. Takes out the… obstacles in the path. We’re—” He hesitates again. “Fuck it. We’re running them to a safehouse. We usually want two people, front and back, especially on the dangerous runs. Orion owns the house. I was taking point. And did my job, I guess.” He gestures vaguely at his side.

MacCready furrows his brow. Then he looks over Deacon’s shoulder. At Orion, Deacon figures. “You need a guard.”

Deacon hears Orion sigh. “I’ve done it solo before. If I have to, I can—”

“How far?” MacCready says.

There’s a moment of silence. Then Orion says, “Deacon? I’m taking a lot on faith here.”

Deacon looks up at MacCready again. Their eyes lock. 

“I trust him,” Deacon says. 

Something in MacCready’s expression softens, the way it had the day they first met, when Anthony called him a friend. Deacon has to look away, and tries to disguise it as another wince.

“It’s south of here, another couple miles,” Orion says, a little quieter.

MacCready lifts his rifle and cocks it. “Let’s go.”

“What?” Deacon and Orion say at the same time. 

“I’ve done plenty of caravan guard jobs. This isn’t that different,” MacCready says. He catches Deacon’s eye again. “You need help. I’m offering.”

Deacon frowns. “MacCready, this isn’t… this is a lot more dangerous.” 

“Clearly,” MacCready says, with a pointed look at Deacon’s side. “You did see what happened to the welcome party that tried to greet me earlier, right?”

Deacon slowly shuts his mouth as Orion says, “That was _you_? What about… I don’t even know what you were doing here, honestly.” 

“Trying to get rid of those raiders,” MacCready says. “It’ll keep.”

“I—” Orion finally crosses into view, pursing his lips. “I guess all I can say is thank you.” He looks over at Deacon again. Deacon gives him a nod.

“You’re in good hands,” he adds. 

“Stay out of sight,” MacCready says to him. “I’ll be back.”

“Be careful,” Deacon replies. 

“Ladies.” Orion waves the synths out from where they’re hovering. N5 hesitates as she passes, and turns to Deacon. She gives him a hard look. 

“Thank you,” she says. 

Deacon blinks at her in surprise. He raises his hand in a weak wave. Then he watches them disappear into the darkness, his chest tight for too many reasons.

\----

The pain comes back in pieces. He sits as still as he can on Slim’s couch, against musty cushions leaking their stuffing, and tries to keep breathing. Every deep breath aches a little more. The headache gradually branches across the back of his skull again. 

“What happened?” Deacon asks Slim, who’s perched himself casually against the back wall, so he can see both Deacon and the entrance. The firelight makes the melted grooves of the ghoul’s skin look all the deeper, his eyes so red where they should be white.

“You got shot, man. I saw you pull the bullet out,” Slim says. 

“I know that,” Deacon says. He grits his teeth through a particularly sharp jab in his side. “Why does my head hurt?”

“I think the shot knocked you back and you probably hit it when you landed,” Slim says. “Like, on the ground. That’s my guess. Orion came and got me after.”

“Shit,” Deacon says. The fire is hurting his eyes. He squeezes them closed.

“Nah, man, you gotta stay awake,” Slim says. “Heard that once, with head stuff. Sleeping’s bad.”

“Fucking—_ah, balls_—wonderful,” Deacon hisses out. He grips the couch arm, his fingers sinking into a tear in the fabric. “What do I... owe you? For the—_fuck_—Med-X.”

“Free of charge,” Slim says, waving a hand. “For old times’ sake.”

Deacon looks down at his lap. “No more old times.”

“It’s cool, Deacon. I respect that,” Slim says. Out of the corner of his eye, Deacon sees him hold up his hands. “You’ve always been a good dude, that was all I meant. I can spare some help on the house. Think you oughta let me give you one more for the trip back. If it took that much to get you this far.”

Deacon scowls down at his knees. He knows Slim’s right, and Med-X was never his brand of poison, but it scratches up against an old fear, an old habit, that he doesn’t want to think about.

“Anyway, other than getting yourself shot on my doorstep, things are good?” Slim says, pulling Deacon from his thoughts. God, he hates small talk. Hates it especially when it takes so much work to concentrate on the words through the growing pain.

“Sure,” Deacon grounds out. “Peachy keen.”

“Seems like you got some good things going for you.” Deacon looks up to find Slim smirking at him.

“What’s that mean?” Deacon says. He fumbles in his pocket for his sunglasses, to try and shield his eyes from the fire.

“The guy you were with,” Slim says, gesturing in the direction MacCready had gone.

“What about him?”

“Oh come on, man. I might be missing some skin but I still got eyes,” Slim chuckles.

“We’re just friends,” Deacon says warily.

Slim gives him a look. “He know that?”

“Slim.”

“All right, all right.” Slim lifts his hands again. “Just saying. Don’t think many people would take up with you and yours out of the blue like that just to be nice.”

Boy, does Deacon know it. Deacon’s eyes settle on the far end of the courtyard. MacCready picked up a run. For the Railroad. Just... just like that. 

Maybe he still felt like he owed Deacon. Shit, that _would_ be quite the way to pay him back, and clear his ledger. That had to be it. Right? But then... Deacon thinks of the way MacCready looked down at him as he lay on the ground. Frightened. Desperate. And that touch Deacon had felt, even through the pain.

He’s still puzzling through it when MacCready stumbles back into the courtyard a little while later. His eyes fall on Deacon and his shoulders seem to slump a little with relief, to see him still upright, still (tightly, shallowly) breathing. Or maybe it’s relief to be done with the run, _stop reading into things._

“Made it okay?” Deacon asks.

MacCready nods. “They’re good. Safe.” He keeps moving forward until he can kneel in front of Deacon. He studies Deacon’s face. “How are you?”

“Been better,” Deacon says, with a grimace.

“We need to get you to a doctor,” MacCready says. “But that’s... god, Diamond City?”

Deacon hesitates again. The Church is closer, and it would probably be safer for both of them. MacCready had just killed another bunch of Gunners after all, and apparently they were paying him a lot of attention. But that would mean having to bring MacCready into the Church. Letting him know where HQ is. Deacon definitely isn’t going make it on his own, even with the Med-X. 

Letting MacCready even know the vicinity of HQ had been a risk. To take him inside wouldn’t just endanger the Railroad. It would endanger MacCready. 

“Deacon,” MacCready says carefully. Deacon realizes MacCready’s still staring up at him, watching his face. “If you know somewhere else we can go—“

“I just… HQ is closer,” he says. “We have a doctor.”

“Then let me take you there,” MacCready says, looking confused.

“I can’t.”

MacCready frowns. “Why not?” 

Deacon opens and closes his mouth. After a moment, he says. “You have to understand, it’s not just my risk to take. You saw Switchboard.”

MacCready pulls back a little. He looks... hurt. “You really think I’m going to sell you out? Still?”

“What? No—“ Deacon straightens, lifting his hand to reach for MacCready, and then chokes back a groan as the movement makes the pain scream along his side. He forces out, “That’s not it.” He bares his teeth, trying to ride out the worst of it. “I’d be making you... a target. I can’t... do that to you.”

“Deacon,” MacCready says sharply, silencing him. “I’m not leaving you. So we’re going back Diamond City or we’re going wherever is closer. But you need a doctor. Now. Tonight.”

Deacon stares at him, a little taken aback. MacCready sighs and looks away. Firelight spills across his face. Deacon watches it flicker over his cheeks. He wants to touch them. He purses his lips, and forces himself to look somewhere else. Which backfires, because his eyes land on Slim, who’s smirking at him again from against the wall.

MacCready slowly leans closer again. He lays a hand on Deacon’s knee. Deacon’s sunglasses have slid low on his nose, so when he looks back at MacCready, their eyes meet.

“You said you trust me,” MacCready says softly. “So trust me.” His hand tightens. “It’s worth the risk.”

Deacon can’t feel so sure. But the pain is only getting worse. And MacCready is holding his gaze, earnest and determined. 

Fuck. Desdemona is going to kill him. 

“Okay.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shit's getting real. 
> 
> 1) Almost everything about Dayton Safehouse, from Orion to the route they take to where it's located, is my creation, so if anything's weird, I apologize. The only thing the game gives is that it exists, so I took a fair bit of license. 
> 
> 2) I really wish the game went into more detail about how and why Slim is a Railroad ally. It just has the symbols on the wall and I'm so intrigued. So, again, took some license.
> 
> 3) I owe a boundless debt of gratitude to the (sadly defunct) ScriptMedic tumblr for helping me come up with a plausible injury to fill my specific narrative needs and also describe it. Apologies for whatever might still hit a wrong note, I've never broken a bone, much less a rib, or had a concussion. I had wildly different plans for this chapter originally and I'm very glad I stopped to do research about what is feasible and what is not. I'm sure Deacon is too.
> 
> 4) This chapter required me to research Fallout chems in way more depth than I ever knew I wanted to know. I didn't know that Med-X is actually just straight up morphine before writing this, and was even called that originally until flagged by a ratings board or something. Stimpaks are a little bit more hazy. They can instantly heal mild wounds but are not intended to instantly heal major trauma. So I'm treating them like a healing accelerant but not a cure. So essentially, a weaker pain treatment than Med-X, but safer to use long term.
> 
> Chapter 13 came together even faster than I hoped, and it's A Lot, so I'm relieved to have it drafted. It'll go up when I have a draft for Chapter 14, which may take some time, as I have to sort out some technical details and make some plot choices. But I promise it will come together! Thank you for sticking with me.


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's a nasty walk to HQ, and the welcome isn't exactly warm. While Deacon recovers, MacCready heads out on a quest, and then returns with something to say.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hoo boy. Okay. Here we go. This chapter is exactly 10,001 words. I usually post a new chapter as soon as I'm done writing the one after it, but I've been so nervous about posting this one I actually waited until I was halfway through the chapter after _that_. Just so the wait wouldn't be too long. I'll just quietly point again to the Angst with a Happy Ending tag. I promise you I will live up to that tag. 
> 
> Thanks as always to **serenityfails**, who was gracious enough to read the last scene like nine times and help me trim and prune until I could make it what it needed to be. They are, as ever, the best beta.
> 
> Warnings: A lot of discussion of pain, as Deacon starts recovering from being shot. Shots and needles used throughout, with relatively minimal description. There's also some very violent, gory imagery in flashbacks at the end. If you need to, skip from "He remembers standing" to "It doesn't matter." There should be enough context to understand the idea without.

“Is that it?”

Deacon wearily lifts his head. Ahead of them, he sees a familiar white door lit from below by a single, beat-up little lantern. It’s bright in the thick darkness around them, bright enough to see the rest of the Church by. Deacon’s never been so happy to see crumbling brick and broken glass in his entire life.

“That’s it,” he says. MacCready sighs a little with relief, adjusting his grip on Deacon’s hip where Deacon leans heavily into his side, and moves them toward it.

The walk back from Slim’s had been, in a word, hell. Even with the parting dose of Med-X dulling the worst of the pain and making him feel like his head was floating, every step he took rattled up through the sore spot on his ribs. Breathing still hurt like a bitch, too, and you kind of have to do a whole fucking lot of it when you’re crossing a ruined city as quickly as the pain will let you. At least he made it to the outskirts of the North End before he all but collapsed against the wall of an old restaurant.

“I’ll be fine,” he’d said, waving off MacCready’s arm as they left Slim’s alley. Deacon knew it would make them a giant neon sign of a target to stumble through the city with him leaning on MacCready’s shoulder. As if the slow pace wasn’t going to do that anyway. But he’d insisted. 

“I’m okay,” he’d said as they stood behind a half-blasted wall on the edge of an apartment complex infested with super mutants. He’d willed his fingers not to shake as he reached for the Stealth Boy clipped to his belt. He’d taken four times as long as MacCready to cross the road, his eyes cutting to the mutant pacing not five feet above his head with every step he took. He’d tried to swallow down every groan bubbling up in his throat as his side ached and burned.

“I’m good, just give me a minute,” he’d said, leaning over the shell of a rusty washing machine in an abandoned laundromat they’d ducked inside. They could see a bored-looking raider watching the street across from them, chin in hand. Deacon had just needed to breathe. There had to be a way to do that without setting off a bomb under his ribs every time. He just had to find it.

“I’m o—oh shit,” he’d said, his shoulder slamming into the brick wall next to him as they passed beneath the North End sign. He’d blinked a few times at the mortar between the bricks to get it to stop spinning away from his fingers. And then his arm was being tugged up, and there was a hand tight on his hip, and he wasn’t looking at bricks, but at MacCready, who was glaring at him, his eyes big and bright in the dark. 

“You’re a stubborn fucking idiot, is what you are,” MacCready said. The swearing had shaken Deacon out of his stupor a little. “Come on, which way?”

Deacon had inhaled to answer and ended up pulling in some dust from the sidewalk, or something. He coughed. Which sent him straight to hell’s front door. 

Pain exploded across his chest. Lights popped and faded in front of his eyes. Deacon wobbled, whimpering, and fell against MacCready’s side. MacCready held him fast, the only thing keeping him on his feet.

Deacon stopped fighting him, after that.

The sound of a doorknob turning yanks Deacon back from his thoughts. MacCready fumbles the Church’s door open one-handed, bracing Deacon on his hip. The inside is nearly as dark as the outside, lit only by a patch of fungus glowing on the wall, and the starlight sinking into the main hall from the gaping hole in the roof. MacCready pauses them near what’s left of the pulpit to stare at the tower of splintered wood and shingles.

“Tell me we’re not climbing through that,” he says.

Deacon shakes his head, which makes it throb. He points vaguely toward the door to the side of the pulpit. “That way.” 

MacCready follows his finger and then nods. He half-carries Deacon toward it. “So, repairing the hole anyone could jump in through wasn’t priority one?”

“Smartass,” Deacon says. Croaks, more like. “Has to look… abandoned. They won’t… get past… the wall, anyway.”

“The wall?”

It’s an aggravatingly slow walk through the catacombs. It’s musty, the air heavy with the smell of mushrooms and wet dust, and it tickles Deacon’s throat. He tries not to breathe it in too deeply, frightened of setting off another coughing fit. At least Glory hadn’t gotten around to replacing the ferals Anthony had shot to pieces on his first visit. That would’ve been fun. Welcome, MacCready, to the Railroad, here’s your worst fucking nightmare. 

Finally, they reach the Freedom Trail sign, lit a strange green by another patch of fungus. MacCready reluctantly lets Deacon stumble over to it on his own, and watches him turn the circle in the center. Distantly, Deacon thinks of the decoder ring again. Huh. He hadn’t even realized…

The ring slots through the final letter. The wall clicks and groans and slides back. 

“Holy crap,” MacCready says behind him.

The light on the stairs hits Deacon’s eyes. He hisses and shrinks away, slumping a little against the wall as they step through. He feels MacCready’s hands grip his shoulders.

“Come on, Deacon, we’re almost there, right?” he says. 

The door to HQ slams back on its hinges, smacking the brick behind it, before Deacon can answer. He lifts his head weakly and squints. He sees Glory marching over the threshold. Well, he sees the minigun she’s lugging and the white shock of hair, and fills in the blanks from there. 

“Who the hell are—Deacon?”

“Just the welcome home… every guy hopes for,” Deacon says. He starts to push off the wall, and MacCready catches his shoulder to steady him.

“What the fuck happened?” Glory drops the gun, letting it land on the floor with a quiet thud, and comes down the stairs. “Who is this?”

“Can we skip Twenty Questions and get him to a doctor, please?” MacCready says. Glory’s eyes narrow.

“He’s cool, Glory,” Deacon says. “I’ll… vouch for him.”

Glory’s expression doesn’t change. MacCready holds her gaze, glaring right back. She turns. “Do not fucking touch anything.” 

Deacon motions toward the door. MacCready frowns, but helps him up to it as Glory holds it open. He closes his eyes as they pass in and out of the light.

“Dez is going to kill you,” Glory says as they shuffle past her. 

“Wouldn’t be… the first person… to try tonight,” Deacon says. 

“What happened?”

“Dez volun-told me to do a Dayton run,” Deacon says. He has to take the stairs down to HQ one at a time, and the pain still races sharp through his chest with each one. He grits his teeth.

“Shit. Gunners or raiders?” Glory says, shutting the door and following behind.

“Raiders,” Deacon says. “Gunners are dead. You can—ah, _shit_—thank him for that.” Deacon waves his free hand at MacCready.

“What the hell is going on here? Who is this?” Carrington stalks into view, looking marginally more pissed than usual. 

“Hi babe. Miss me?” Deacon says, just because he knows the exact way it’s going to make Carrington’s face scrunch up, and for the second he gets to enjoy it, it’s a balm for his pain. MacCready stiffens next to him as he says it, though. Deacon looks over to find him staring at Carrington.

“I will leave you to bleed out on the floor,” Carrington says. Desdemona rounds the war table behind him.

“Joke’s on you… I’m not bleeding…” Deacon says, grunting as his foot finally hits the floor.

“_Yet_,” Carrington says. But he does start moving some chairs aside. “Bring him here. And then stay where we can see you.” 

“Such a friendly bunch,” MacCready grumbles. 

“You see… why I do… the recruiting?” Deacon says. The corner of MacCready’s mouth lifts, just a little.

\----

“You’re an idiot. You realize that, right?”

Carrington glowers down at Deacon as he finishes emptying the stimpak into Deacon’s side. Deacon leans a little more heavily back on the gurney they’d helped him up on and tries to give Carrington a withering look in return. It’s probably not having the effect he wants with his shirt shoved up his chest and his eyes watering with the sting. 

“Yeah, no one’s… letting me forget it… tonight,” he says. 

“An incredibly lucky idiot,” Carrington continues as he carries the used stimpak to a bucket in the corner and tosses it in. “If you hadn’t been wearing that vest—”

“Can we not… dwell on what… didn’t happen, and… focus on what did?” Deacon says, reaching up to pull his shirt down. “Which is… what exactly?”

“The impact from the bullet broke your rib. And you probably have a concussion,” Carrington says.

“You’re sure that’s all?” MacCready cuts in.

Deacon glances over at him. He’s sitting on the edge of a chair next to the gurney, curling and uncurling his fingers on the armrest. 

“Let me just pull out the working x-ray and the MRI machine we have just sitting around in this centuries-old catacomb,” Carrington snaps. “Yes, I’m sure that’s all. He’s not wheezing, so it didn’t puncture his lung. The other ribs are intact. He’s walking fine, his pupils aren’t dilated, and he’s mouthing off. He’ll need a stimpak every few hours, some coughing exercises, and deep breathing to avoid pneumonia. Yes, you big baby, it’ll hurt, stop looking at me like that. Other than that, he’ll be fine.” 

“Jesus, it’s a fair question. He got shot! Could you be more of an asshole?” MacCready says.

“Bobby—” Deacon starts. 

“All right, since we’re on the subject of questions, who the hell _are_ you?” Carrington says, rounding on the chair. MacCready stands, clenching his fists at his sides. “Deacon’s starting to drag anyone off the street in here when he knows exactly what that risks for _all of us_—”

“So that should tell you… exactly what you need… to know,” Deacon grounds out, trying to sit up, “if _I_ trust him… enough to… bring him here.”

“That is not a choice you get to make on your own,” Carrington says, scowling at Deacon.

“Jesus Christ, he got shot in the god damn side! He wasn’t going to make it back alone!” MacCready snaps. “I should’ve just fucking left him there? What the hell is wrong with you? I’m not here to fuck with you people, I’m here for _him_!” 

“You clearly have no idea the consequences that could come—”

“He needed help, you sour-ass son of a—”

“Enough.”

It’s Desdemona’s voice, from somewhere behind the gurney. Deacon tries to turn his head a little to see her, but it aches, so he just watches MacCready instead. He’s flushed and snarling, looking like he’s about two steps and one swing away from knocking Carrington to the floor. Over Deacon? That’s… huh.

“What’s your name?” Desdemona says.

MacCready doesn’t turn. He keeps his eyes on Carrington, breathing heavily. Deacon’s a little taken aback by the anger coming off him in waves. “MacCready.”

Desdemona is quiet for a moment. “You helped them at Switchboard.”

MacCready slowly nods. He still doesn’t move.

“He’s part of the reason… we have your… fucking prototype,” Deacon says, frowning at Carrington. “And he finished the run… when I couldn’t. He saved… two synths tonight.” He shifts a little, trying to settle his tailbone more comfortably on the stiff leather. “So lay off.”

MacCready actually falters at that, his eyes darting over to Deacon. The surprise seems to knock the fight out of him. His fist slowly uncurls at his side.

“Thank you,” Desdemona says. Carrington scoffs and mutters something under his breath. He turns away to the table he’s using for his desk.

“Not many would’ve done that,” Desdemona continues. 

MacCready looks uncomfortable. “It’s not a big—”

“Boss, we got a—uh,” Drummer Boy starts, standing at his desk a few feet away. He hesitates when he sees MacCready. Deacon’s not sure how he missed the yelling, because Deacon can feel every other eye in the room on them. Just how often had Desdemona and Carrington been arguing lately?

Deacon hears Desdemona sigh. To MacCready, she says, “It’s been a long night. Just stay here, we can sort this out in the morning.”

Carrington wheels around. “Have you lost your—”

“You think it’s better to send him straight back out?” Desdemona says. Carrington opens his mouth, then shuts it again as the unspoken part seems to register. _So he can go straight to the Institute if we’re wrong?_

Carrington shakes his head and turns away. Desdemona excuses herself, and Deacon sees her wander over to Drummer Boy’s desk and lean over his shoulder.

“Go sleep it off, Deacon,” Carrington says, without turning. Like it’s a hangover and not a broken fucking rib. “We’ll start breathing exercises in the morning.”

“Oh yeah, sure, sleep, no problem, that’ll be easy,” Deacon says. He pushes himself to sit on the edge of the gurney with a wince, his legs dangling over the floor. “Thought I shouldn’t sleep with head stuff, anyway?”

Carrington looks up at the ceiling and sighs. Then he squats down, pulling a padlocked box up from one of the lower shelves. He pulls a key out of the inner pocket of his lab coat and unlocks it, pushing a few things aside until he finds something and lifts it out. He closes the box and locks it again. Then he strides back over and drops a pill into Deacon’s hand. He leans down to pull a fresh can of water from a crate beneath the gurney, and holds it out.

“This is just for tonight. I have a limited supply. It’ll put you to sleep. After this, you’ll have to tough it out on your own,” he says, watching Deacon swallow it down. “And yes, you can and should sleep. As long as your symptoms are under control. So get to it.” 

He shoos Deacon toward the back corridor with a parting glare at MacCready, who’s moved back to Deacon’s side. MacCready curls his lip at him, muttering “dick” under his breath as he helps Deacon down onto his feet. Deacon smiles a little to himself.

“Is he always like that?” MacCready asks quietly, keeping pace with Deacon as they slowly make their way to the back.

“If he ever cracked a smile... I’d probably start running,” Deacon says.

“You’re, um—” MacCready starts, then seems to hesitate. “You’re not—actually dating him, are you?”

Deacon looks up at him in bewilderment and then barks out a laugh. Which makes pain burst across his side, and he chokes off his laughter with a groan, slumping a little against the doorway. He feels eyes on them again.

“Shit, are you okay?” MacCready says, hands hovering near Deacon’s shoulder.

“Please... don’t make me laugh… you jerk,” Deacon says, trying to grin through the pain. “Is this because of... the ‘babe’ comment?”

MacCready looks away. “Well, I—um, maybe.”

“Oh my god,” Deacon wheezes, slowly pushing back to his feet. “Not for all the caps in Diamond City.” 

MacCready smirks. His shoulders relax a little. Huh. 

“I was about to say, you can do better,” he says. 

Deacon snorts. “_Anyone_ could do... better than that.” His eyelids start to feel a little heavy then, and he stumbles toward the mattress on the floor. “Oh wow, this shit... kicks in fast.”

It takes a little maneuvering and a lot of wincing, but together they manage to get Deacon down onto his back. The mattress is so much thinner than the one he was using in Sanctuary, and the springs dig into his back a little. MacCready sits down next to him, back propped against the wall. Deacon rolls his head until he can see MacCready’s face, easier now with the pillow to cushion him.

“Listen, I—I need to... thank you before... I pass out,” Deacon says. MacCready’s expression softens again, but his eyes won’t meet Deacon’s. “I don’t know where to start.”

“I should’ve seen him,” MacCready says. The soft look disappears. His face scrunches back up into the angry glare from earlier, only now it’s directed at his feet. “I told you I’d cover you. He just came out of nowhere, and I—”

Deacon reaches over blindly and ends up gripping MacCready’s calf. “Hey. Stop. You got me here. And you saved lives tonight. That’s a… a big deal.” Fuck, he’s so sleepy. He fights to keep his eyes open, blinking a few times. “It’s a big deal, Bobby.”

“I’m just glad you’re okay,” MacCready says quietly.

“Takes more’n that,” Deacon mumbles. His head feels so foggy. He had something else to say, didn’t he? “You’re so—” he says, and hears himself slurring. “So—” His eyes slide shut. He feels his hand slipping off MacCready’s leg, onto the mattress below. “You’re so good, Bobby…”

Was that what he meant to say? He hears MacCready say something else, but it’s so far away. His thoughts start to drift. Everything starts to drift. Distantly he feels something, a touch on his head. And then it’s gone, and he sleeps.

\----

When Deacon wakes, it feels like he’s trying to swim to the surface of a deep lake. He comes back to himself in pieces, groggy and confused. The pain comes back first, flaring up his side as he breathes in. His head doesn’t pound, but it aches, still bent to the side. He slowly opens his eyes, and sees the bed next to his is empty, and there’s a shadow in the doorway. He blinks a little to clear the fluorescent haloes at the edge of his vision, and looks hard at the doorway. It’s Desdemona, standing sideways, looking at something Deacon can’t see. She’s talking, low enough that Deacon only catches bits and pieces.

“…think we’re not grateful. We just have to be cautious, and…”

He can’t hear the rest. A voice responds a moment later. MacCready’s voice.

“I get it. You don’t have to…” And then something Deacon can’t make out. “I was never here. Don’t know a thing about it.”

“You sure you don’t…” Desdemona says, the rest too quiet. 

But he hears MacCready’s response clear enough to make his heart jump. “Listen, I’m only really starting to get all of this. But it’s… it’s important to him. And that’s all that matters.”

He means Anthony, Deacon tries to tell himself. He has to mean Anthony. All Deacon can see is Desdemona, and he watches her face do something complicated he can’t discern from the side. Her head starts to turn toward him, so he shuts his eyes quickly. 

“What he said to Carrington was true, you know,” she says, and Deacon can hear her clearly now. “None of us trust easily, but Deacon… it says a lot that he brought you here.”

He didn’t mean Anthony. Deacon tries to keep his breathing even, so he doesn’t give himself away by triggering a pain spike in his chest. Fuck, she’s right, too. Deacon had basically broadcast himself last night, because he was hurting and tired and disoriented and there wasn’t time to think of better excuses.

“Just tell him—tell him to take it easy,” MacCready says. “I have to get back…” He goes quieter, and all Deacon can hear of the rest is Anthony’s name. 

“Just… don’t make us regret trusting you,” Desdemona says. She pauses, then adds, “Don’t make him regret it.” 

“I won’t.”

Deacon’s heart clenches. He swallows heavily, listening to MacCready’s retreating footsteps. After a moment, a weight dips down on the mattress next to him. Deacon opens his eyes to see Desdemona’s hand halfway to his shoulder. She drops it, and gives him a tight smile. 

“How are you feeling?” she says. She folds her knees up and rests her hands on her thighs.

“I think I can take another punch,” he says, his voice rough. It’s a little easier to talk today, at least, even though it hurts. “Just aim for the shoulder or something, okay? The face was expensive.”

Desdemona gives him a look, but there’s a ghost of a smirk on her lips. Deacon shifts a little to see her better, grunting with the effort. His rib protests loudly until he settles again. “I’m sorry, Dez. I know I shouldn’t have. But he was right, I couldn’t have made it alone, and—”

“Do you remember how I joined the Railroad?” she interrupts, looking down at him. “How you recruited me?”

Deacon stares at her a moment, mouth still open, thrown off. She continues, “That bar, in Diamond City. I was the drunkest I’d ever been in my life.”

Deacon smiles faintly. “You kept banging on the counter, sloshing your drink everywhere, demanding that someone tell you how to find the Railroad, so you could ‘beat the shit out of every last one of them.’”

Desdemona nods. “Because of my wife. Sam was a synth. I’d always known, never cared, until I came back from a scavenging run and she—the Coursers had found her.” 

“And you were demanding to know why the Railroad hadn’t been there to stop them,” Deacon says. He remembers it: Desdemona, red-faced and white-knuckled in the Dugout Inn, her hair longer, her clothes covered in dirt. Shouting at anyone who could hear her. Deacon can’t recall if the Bobrov brothers owned the Inn yet, or if it had been someone else trying to grab her flailing fists, begging her to quiet down.

“You stepped in, took me aside, got me to tell you the story,” Desdemona says. She rubs her hands on her thighs. “I don’t remember how. But I do remember what you said when I told you what I wanted to do to the Railroad.”

Deacon smiles again. “I asked if you thought you could do it better. And you said, ‘Damn right I could.’”

“And you told me to prove it. You got me a room, and some water, and told me if I still felt the same in the morning, to meet you outside the city.” 

“Pinky’s life was never the same,” Deacon says, laughing quietly and then cutting himself off with a groan. She waits until he relaxes back again.

“Anyone else would’ve seen me as a threat,” she says. “I _was_ a threat. But that’s not how you saw it.”

“That was grief talking,” Deacon says.

Desdemona shakes her head. “Doesn’t matter. The anger was real, and I was drawing attention to the Railroad in public. I could’ve tried to run to the Institute that night. But you knew I wouldn’t.”

“Hoped,” Deacon says. “I mean, I was waiting outside to intercept you, one way or another.”

“You knew the right risk to take. You’ve always seemed to know. Even when I don’t always agree, or understand. You’re the reason I’m here. You’re the reason Bullseye’s here. Don’t get me wrong, you’ve made your share of mistakes—”

“Way to build a guy up only to break him down, Dez,” Deacon says, rolling his eyes.

“—and you did take a major risk, without warning. But no matter what Carrington says, I know you didn’t do it without thinking. And I think—” She glances at the door. “I think your instincts are right, here.”

“He won’t sell us out,” Deacon says, quiet but firm.

She looks at him for a long moment. “Is that your head or your heart talking?”

Deacon splutters. “Hey, I—that’s not—”

“Did I actually manage to leave you speechless for once?” She smirks at him.

Deacon purses his lips. “Look, I—”

“It’s all right, Deacon,” she says. “Just… be careful. For all of our sakes. He had to leave, by the way. Something he said he had to finish for Bullseye.”

“I’m kinda surprised you just let him go.”

“Not without a few strong words of—“

There’s a knock on the doorframe. Deacon looks up to find Carrington frowning down at him. “Breathing exercises. It’s time.”

“‘Scuse me, Dez. Carrington needs to torture me,” Deacon says, struggling to push himself up. His muscles ache so much more today, his arms stiff and sore as he tries to steady them on the mattress. Desdemona reaches out to help him.

“My greatest wish in life,” Carrington says flatly. “Hold out your arm, we’ll get the stimpak in first."

Desdemona rolls her eyes and crawls out of the way, pushing back to her feet. Deacon winks at her, then winces as Carrington stabs the needle in. Desdemona just smiles slightly and moves back through the doorway.

\----

The next few days pass in a blur of (steadily declining, thankfully) pain, leaving him little room to think about anything else. Carrington only offers Med-X once, and Deacon refuses, because he wants to accept. He takes only stimpaks, here and there, and only when the burn is too sharp to just grit his teeth through. He knows too well that their supply is limited. He worries each time the needle hits that he’ll look up to find Glory stumbling in bleeding, or one of the other agents with a broken leg, or Carrington will get called out into the field and come back short. He takes only what he needs, and even that feels like too much. Purple bruising spiderwebs across his torso, deep and sore, and Tinker Tom helpfully informs him the back of his head looks like someone threw a rotten mutfruit at it. 

This isn’t the first time Deacon’s broken a bone, or the first time he’s injured himself well enough to be grounded for a few weeks. But it’s been awhile since the Rusty Desk Drawer Incident of ‘78, or the Close Encounter with Rebar-Swinging Muties of ‘82. At least he’d gotten a few prize scars out of all of that. He’d forgotten how much it makes him _itch_, to be so thoroughly and uselessly stuck, hardly able to stumble to the bathroom on his own. Hardly able to change his own god damn underwear. (He’d gotten very creative with a plunger, because he was not about to ask Tinker Tom. Or Carrington. Or Drummer Boy.)

“If you want to impale your liver on a bone spike while you’re at it, by all means, keep overdoing it,” Carrington had growled at him the second day, when Deacon tried to reach for one of the boxes of coffee on the top shelf on his own. And then he’d just wanted to grab it anyway so he could throw it at Carrington’s head.

He’s never been comfortable sitting still. Being bedridden is going to drive him insane. Especially when he has to listen to the dead drops and the runs coming through in the next room, and Desdemona desperately trying to spread out people she doesn’t have. Glory comes back growling, and Carrington snaps at anyone that moves, and Desdemona smokes, and smokes, and smokes. 

So there’s not much room to think. Not about that night, or MacCready, until four days into his captivity. The back maintenance door swings open, and Deacon sits up as best he can to watch Anthony stroll through it. MacCready follows behind him.

MacCready’s eyes dart around the corridor until they settle on Deacon, and then his shoulders relax. He’s still wearing Deacon’s leather jacket. Oddly enough, that’s the detail that makes Deacon’s heart lodge in his throat. But the way MacCready looks at him once he sees him doesn’t help either. The same kind of startled relief he wore coming back to Slim’s from the run. Deacon knows he’s staring back with some kind of completely slack-jawed, soppy look he’ll never live down if Anthony notices. His sunglasses lay somewhere near his elbow, so there’s no hiding it. Despite his hammering pulse, it’s like a wave of calm washes over him, like relief but deeper, wider. Like every part of his body says, in one chorus, _oh, thank god, it’s you._

For fuck’s sake, now he’s writing bad poetry in his head about it? Why the fuck wasn’t he panicking about this sooner? This is getting _embarrassing_.

He can’t imagine what kind of picture he makes, in a t-shirt he’s been wearing for three days and sweatpants he only managed to change this morning. He’s probably a little greasy with leftover sweat from struggling through the pain of the breathing exercises, and from barely managing more than sponge-bathing his armpits. His toes are bare. He’s not sure how far the bruise on the back of his skull has spread. His hair’s starting to grow back, too. He can feel the itchy fuzz. He feels so strangely _seen_, like this.

“Hey, Grognak,” Anthony says, and Deacon’s eyes snap away from MacCready as Anthony comes to a stop at the foot of the mattress. “Heard you’ve been trying to stop bullets with your chest.”

“Puny guns not stop me,” Deacon says, putting on his best Grognak voice, which doesn’t sound very different from his super mutant voice, and also sends him into a coughing fit that rattles sharply through his chest. “Ah, Jesus, all right, I have regrets.”

Once his breathing evens out, he pushes himself to sit a little straighter. He feels MacCready’s eyes on him, and sees him standing a little closer in his periphery, now. Deacon grabs a pillow from the empty bed next to his and braces it against his chest. “So, how was _your_ week?”

Anthony chuckles. “Probably not much better. I think I managed to stave off the Brotherhood for now, at least for the Railroad. There are a lot of mind-numbing salvage missions in my future until I have to stop kissing ass.”

Deacon’s nose curls up. “You’re right, getting shot sounds way better.”

Anthony laughs again. “Glad you’re all right, though, really. I’ve gotta update Dez and talk about a few things for Mercer. Rest up, okay?”

Deacon nods, raising his hand in a weak little wave as Anthony moves into the main room. MacCready doesn’t follow. Deacon swallows down a sudden burst of nerves and forces himself to look up at him. “Did you send those raiders my regards?”

“I sent them straight to hell, so I figure that’s about the same,” MacCready says, with a crooked grin. He slings his pack to the ground, along with the strap of his rifle. Then he sits himself down on the empty mattress next to Deacon’s. 

“Almost made me miss the cave, sleeping on this thing,” he says. He presses his fist against one of the springs. 

“Sanctuary’s spoiled you,” Deacon says, the corner of his mouth lifting. MacCready looks up at him, and Deacon reminds himself to breathe. Jesus, he feels like a teenager. Then again, the last time he felt like this, he _was_ a teenager.

“How are you?” MacCready asks, sobering a little. “Really.”

Deacon looks down at the pillow in his lap. “I’m… I hate this. I hate not being able to _do_ anything. They won’t even let me make my own fucking coffee. I have to watch everything going on and I can’t—” He cuts himself off with a sigh. (At least he can do that with only a brief flare of pain, now.) Way to sound ungrateful, jackass. “Shit. Sorry. I’m alive. That’s really all that matters.”

MacCready shakes his head. “I’m just sorry it happened. I should’ve been paying attention—”

“Stop,” Deacon says immediately, grabbing MacCready’s wrist before he realizes he’s doing it. Well, fuck. What’s done is done. So he lets himself hold on for a moment. “We’ve been over this. Take it from the world champion of personal regrets twenty years running: stop beating yourself up when I’m just grateful you were there.”

MacCready stares down at Deacon’s hand. He lifts the arm Deacon isn’t holding onto, the one with the Pip Boy strapped to it. Deacon watches his hand hover for a moment, then drop onto his thigh. Deacon purses his lips, unsure why his heart is hammering even harder than it was already. (Completely sure why. Absolutely, completely sure. Wishing to god he wasn’t sure.) He pulls his hand away to pretend to resettle the pillow. 

MacCready clears his throat. “Anyway, I—I came here to tell you that, um… we’re going to MedTek. Finally.”

“Oh, wow. Hell yeah.” Deacon sets the pillow down next to his leg. “When do we leave?”

“_We?_” MacCready raises an eyebrow at him.

“Yeah, we. I made you a promise,” Deacon says.

“Deacon.”

“What?”

“You’re bedridden.”

“Only because they won’t let me up,” Deacon says, turning to face him a little better.

“Deacon, your head—”

“Looks like a deathclaw barfed up a brahmin on it, I know. Tinker gives me hourly updates,” Deacon says. “It looks worse than it feels.”

He starts to press his hand to the wall to stand. MacCready whips forward and grabs his shoulders, holding him in place, and startling him. “Deacon for fu—for god’s sake. Your promise has an injury clause, all right?”

Deacon frowns, but sits back a little. He knows MacCready’s right. He knows he’d be nothing but a liability. He knows his rib can’t take the recoil of a gun right now, much less twisting to elbow away a rushing feral or five. He knows this, and hates it. Quietly, feeling even more defeated than he had staring at his own underwear on the floor around his feet, he says, “I would’ve kept that promise.” 

MacCready looks at him. He sweeps his thumbs in a gentle circle over Deacon’s shoulders. “I know,” he whispers.

MacCready holds his gaze, his hands warm where they rest, his neck flushing. For once, Deacon has no idea what his face is doing. But he does see MacCready’s. And it’s like a curtain is suddenly pulled back as his expression shifts. No just softening. Not just changing. But opening.

_Oh._

“Bobby—”

There’s a clatter in the other room. Deacon flinches and MacCready’s eyes drop. Over MacCready’s shoulder, Deacon can see Carrington bending to pick up several scattered packages of bullets, snarling something at Drummer Boy, who’s holding his hands up.

MacCready’s fingers slide away. Cold seeps into the fabric of Deacon’s t-shirt without them. MacCready doesn’t meet his eyes. “I, uh, just wanted you to know. That we’re going. In case we don’t… make it back.”

Deacon looks up sharply. “You will.”

MacCready tugs at the brim of his hat. “I mean, I told you what we’re facing—”

“You’re the two best shots I’ve ever seen in the Commonwealth. You’ll be fine,” Deacon says firmly. “You’ll march in there and get that medicine like a superhero.”

MacCready smiles weakly. “We’ll try.”

He’s not used to hearing hesitation in MacCready’s voice. He looks to the end of the mattress, where a few of his things rest. His eyes land on the gun on the floor. “Take Deliverer.”

“What?” MacCready’s eyes widen. 

“Take it. It’s got a silencer, and it’s… just take it. Please.”

MacCready follows Deacon’s gaze to where the gun rests. “Deacon, if—”

“No ifs,” Deacon says, because he’s honestly not sure the end of that sentence isn’t going to make him panic. “You can bring it back when you’re done, and tell me the good news.”

MacCready takes in a long, slow breath. He stares at Deacon’s knee for a moment. Then he reaches across, grabs Deacon’s hand, and squeezes it. Deacon closes his eyes. And he squeezes back. 

Then MacCready lets go, and moves to grab Deliverer off the floor. He unzips the jacket and pulls one of his pistols out of the holster, laying it on the floor in Deliverer’s place. He looks at Deacon one more time, then slowly pushes to his feet.

“Deacon, I—” he starts, then stops. He leans his head back and sighs. “Thank you.”

Deacon gives him a small smile. “See you soon.” 

MacCready smiles back. Then he turns, stepping back into the main room to find Anthony. Once he leaves, Deacon drops his face into his hands. He ignores the twinge in his side from the way he bends. His chest hurts for an entirely new reason.

\----

Well, all right, _now_ he’s fucking thinking about it. Now it’s _all_ he can think about, broken bone be damned.

God, he’d kill a man for a drink right now. Which is a thought that jars loose a memory from weeks ago, of MacCready saying the same thing while they sat around a scrubby campfire on the beach at a Nordhagen. “Come to think of it, I have.” And a smirk, playful, coy. It was the day they’d watched the robots at the track, the day Deacon first found himself thinking _damn, he’s handsome_, as a sort of passive observation that he swore to himself meant nothing other than he had a working set of eyes. How’s that going for you now, genius?

_How long?_ he thinks, staring at the empty space on the mattress where MacCready had been sitting the night before. _How long have you been holding onto this? As long as I have? Longer? Did it just click, just then?_

He thinks back. He tries to find the pieces that might fit, might mean something, to slot into a picture he only knows half the shape of. He hardly knows where to begin looking. Because he hadn’t _been_ looking, not for this. He’d been so god damn busy trying to smother his own feelings, he’d barely begun to wonder about MacCready’s. 

Now that he’s naming it—well, no, not exactly naming it. He can’t bring himself to tack a word onto it, like that’s somehow going to make it more real than his entire body lighting up like the Diamond City market every time MacCready walks into the room. All right, try again, then: now that he’s stopped pretending what he feels isn’t there, it’s like he’s knocked over a pitcher of water and it’s flooding every empty space he had left under his skin. Or like waking up from a long, awful dream to find the sun shining right in his eyes. It’s too startling, too bright to look at, too warm and too much. Like he just wants to pull the covers over his head and bury his face in his pillow. But he doesn’t want to go back to sleep any more than he wants to wake up.

He does want to stop thinking in disgustingly drippy metaphors, though. Christ, Deacon.

Was this what it was like the first time? It’s so long ago he hardly remembers how he got there. He didn’t have an entire catalogue of worries and fears and responsibilities back then. He’d just fought his way to his first months of real freedom from the Deathclaws, his first time really, truly on his own. He was frightened and exhilarated and _ready_. And then Barbara walked into his life, with her smile, and her laugh, and that was it. That was all it had to be. It wasn’t weighed down and tied up with what-ifs and might-bes and if-thens. He hardly remembers falling at all. Just… being in love. Just losing it.

That’s the part that colors everything else. The before hardly matters next to the blood-soaked after. 

So what if he could erase the before? What if he could stop it from happening altogether? Would it have been better to never have had her at all? Well, it would have been a hell of a lot better for her. Fuck. Maybe that’s it. Maybe it’s not that he regrets that it happened. It’s not that he regrets falling for her. It’s that he regrets that she fell for him. If he’d never met her, never walked into her life at all, she’d still _have_ that life. She wasn’t the mistake. He was. 

If his feelings were just his, he could deal with it. Badly, maybe, but he could. He could swallow it down and keep it to himself and keep going. He knows how to do it. Nevermind that it’s usually grief he’s choking down, not—whatever this is. But if it’s not just him? If he’s not alone in this? That’s a completely different story.

What the fuck is he supposed to do?

And all of this bullshit isn’t even going to matter if they really don’t come back from MedTek, and how exactly big is that place, how many ferals could there be? Oh god, what if they get swarmed, and MacCready gets another attack, and they—

“Hey. Get up.”

Deacon doesn’t startle, and that’s the only win he’s giving himself for the day. He looks up. Glory’s leaning on the doorframe, her arms folded across her chest as she tosses her hair out of her face. 

He squints at her. “What?”

“Carrington says you should start walking around today,” Glory says. “And I say you need to stop staring at the wall because it’s creeping me out. So get up. We’re walking.”

She pushes off the doorframe with her shoulder, and kneels down on the empty mattress before he can say anything. She helps him climb awkwardly to his feet. He stumbles a little less this time, bracing his other hand against the wall as he finds his footing. Hooray for progress. 

“Where are we going?” Deacon says. He leans heavily on the wall to keep his balance as he shoves his feet into a pair of shoes waiting on the floor. 

“Diamond City,” Glory says flatly. “Where do you think we’re going? Upstairs and around the catacombs. Come on.”

“You’re making me do stairs on my first day of doctor-sanctioned semi-freedom?” Deacon says, wobbling into the main room after her.

“You can have a stimpak first if you’re going to bitch about it.” 

He hears Drummer Boy snicker behind him and flips him the bird. “Your generosity is boundless.”

The stairs hurt, shockingly, and leave him winded, which hurts more. But it’s bearable. Even welcome, in a strange way. It clears his head, and makes him feel like he’s doing something, anything, useful. He suspects Glory might know that, on some level, as she takes each slow step beside him and tells him to “keep moving, you whiny baby,” every time he stops. He feels a little seen again, and it makes him grit his teeth, but she doesn’t comment on it. She just berates him all the way to the top, and never takes a step before he does. 

Once he manages to shuffle through the door, she pushes it shut behind him and lets him lean against the wall for a minute, panting. She folds her arms again and watches him. 

“All right, so, have you been hiding some kind of secret family this entire time?”

Deacon chokes on the inhale and starts coughing, which lights up his side like a match and fucking burns. He grunts and glares up at her. “Jesus, Glory, what?”

She just twists her lips in a wry grin, unapologetic, and turns toward the little staircase leading to the floor. Her shadow slides across the wall, comically large, as she passes in and out of the light. Deacon slowly, weakly follows.

“Come on, that wouldn’t even be in the top ten of the weirdest stories you’ve ever told,” she says.

Deacon wrinkles his nose. “What are you talking about?”

“We were all there the other night,” she says, with a glance over her shoulder. “You bringing your boyfriend home to meet the family, or what?” 

Deacon finally catches on, and rolls his eyes. “Oh yeah, sure, I only regret we had to leave all seven of our children and the dog at home, but you know how it is, sometimes you get shot and all you have time to do is round up your secret spouse.”

She stops, and turns around to face him, still smirking. So he stops too, reaching a hand out to brace himself on the wall and nearly getting a fistful of glowing mushrooms for his trouble.

“Carrington owes Tom twenty caps,” she says. She glances away. “Look, if he is, though—he seems decent.” 

He squints at her again. “Who are you, and what have you done with Glory?”

She rolls her eyes. “Fine, die alone, excuse me for trying.” 

“That’s better,” Deacon says, hobbling after her as she turns around again. He feels sort of like one of those newspaper cartoons he remembers seeing in the library, of a rabbit chasing a carrot on a stick. “Anyway, what makes you think I don’t have secret families all over the Commonwealth?”

“Oh my god,” she says, as they wind slowly around the corner.

“I’m building my own personal army.” 

“You are so full of shit.”

“An entire army of baby Deacons. With sunglasses.”

“No.”

“And pompadour wigs, all of them, exactly the same, even the girls—”

“How would you have time to do literally anything else?”

“Why do you think I’m gone so often?”

“Deacon,” she says, exasperated, stopping at the door that leads to the church’s main room and turning around again.

“You brought it up,” Deacon says. His eyes skate down to her feet.

“Look, _one_ of us should find a little happiness,” she says, a little quieter. “The Institute shouldn’t get to take everything. Fuck them. That’s all.”

Deacon stares back at her for a moment. “Yeah, no, it’s really, really weird when you do the sincerity thing, it’s like—”

“Oh, fuck you, you crippled asshole,” she growls. “I even felt bad enough for you to offer to help you shave your head. But you can forget that now.” She shoulders past him, marching back down the dark hallway.

“Wait, no, Glory—”

“Suffer.”

“Glory! Come back.”

\----

He makes it all the way to the main room the next day, walking just a little faster, a little easier. Sunlight is streaming in through the roof, the rays spilling across the debris and the floor and warming the back of Deacon’s freshly shaved head. Bits of dust float here and there through the light. It’s a quiet morning.

“It’s getting better,” Glory says from behind him as he does a stilted lap from one side of the pulpit to the other. “Your head. Now it just looks like a bloatfly spit on you.”

“Perfect,” Deacon says, turning carefully and starting back. “No one can resist a little bloatfly spit.”

Then the door on the other side of the pulpit swings open then, creaking through the quiet. Both of them tense and turn. Glory’s already reaching to her side for her pistol. But it’s just Anthony, strolling in with a little smile on his face, and MacCready, fast on his heels. 

MacCready. Without a scratch on him that Deacon can see. He looks a little tired, and a little anxious, and… really, really happy. His eyes are so bright, even across the room, and when they land on Deacon, his smile blazes across his entire face. Deacon’s pretty sure the only reason it doesn’t bring him to his knees is knowing how much it would make his rib scream. And Glory would never let him live it down.

“You did it,” Deacon says to him, stopping in place in front of the broken lectern. It’s not a question. Not with that smile, and the way it just widens in answer. “I knew it. I fucking knew you’d storm that place like a beast, I told you!”

Anthony grins, too, and pats Deacon on the shoulder as he passes by to head for the catacombs. Glory just gives Deacon a knowing look and then follows, leaving Deacon to melt into the floor and die as MacCready, red-cheeked and still smiling, passes in and out of the stripes of sunlight on the floor to stand in front of him. 

“You’re walking,” he says, his eyes cinching at the corners.

“Yeah, they let me out of jail, it’s very exciting,” Deacon says. “Can we get back to the actual good news? You did it. Holy shit, man! Are you taking it back yourself?”

MacCready shakes his head. “I sent it through Daisy. She’s the only one I trust to make sure it gets there. Now I just… have to wait.”

“Fuck yeah,” Deacon says, grinning. “I’d hug you, but uh—” He gestures at his side and shrugs. 

MacCready’s eyes linger on Deacon’s torso for a moment. Then he seems to remember something, and reaches up to unzip the leather jacket. He pulls Deliverer out of the side holster and holds it out to Deacon by the barrel. “Thank you for this.”

“Kill a few with it for me?” Deacon asks, wrapping his fingers around the grip. It’s warm.

MacCready nods. “It was actually… a huge help. Thank you.”

“Anytime. Yours is downstairs,” Deacon says. He grimaces a little as he tries to tuck the gun against his back without pulling too tightly at his side. 

MacCready’s quiet while he watches. He’s quiet when Deacon finally straightens. He’s quiet long enough that Deacon’s palms start to sweat a little. “Everything okay?”

“Can, um—can we talk?” MacCready says, gazing steadily at Deacon’s collarbone.

Deacon swallows. His palms are _definitely_ sweating now. He feels his pulse thumping in his wrists, and in his ears. “Sure.” 

MacCready takes a deep breath, his shoulders lifting and dropping in one long motion. He tugs at the brim of his hat before pulling it off his head entirely, his other hand running through his flattened hair. Deacon watches the movement of his fingers, transfixed.

“Listen, I… did a lot of thinking, the last few days. Getting the medicine—it’s been my whole world for months, trying to do this. It’s been the only thing that really mattered. And now I’ve done it and… and Duncan’s maybe going to be okay and we… maybe have a future?”

“You do. He is,” Deacon says quietly. MacCready finally looks up at him.

“That’s—that’s partly because of you. No, let me finish before I lose my nerve,” MacCready says. Deacon’s jaw snaps shut and his heart rate skyrockets.

“I just… Holding that gun, I—I thought about you, and the way you offered to help like it was nothing. Like you aren’t one of the only people I’ve ever met that does stuff like that without expecting something in return. And I kept thinking you had to have an angle, there had to be some way you were going to cash in. Then Diamond City happened, all that stuff, and it’s like the idea was baffling to you. That I could owe you for it. You just… cared enough to do it.”

He steps closer, until the toes of their shoes nearly touch. “You’ve just—you’ve always been like that. Even when we couldn’t stand each other, you still looked out for me. Before you knew about Duncan, or what I was trying to do, or who I was trying to be. It’s like it’s just who you are. I’ve spent so long trying to survive this world because I thought it was all I could hope for. But you—actually want to make it better.”

He reaches up and rubs the back of his neck. “You’re like Anthony sometimes, you… you see this good in people that I don’t even think to look for. You see it in me. Which is—I don’t—I don’t even know how to process that. You make me feel like—like maybe I really can be better.” He purses his lips for a moment. “You make me want to try.” 

He looks up again, slowly dropping his arm. “The other night, you could’ve—we came so close to—” His jaw tightens and he hisses out a breath through his teeth. “I’m not wasting another chance.”

Slowly, MacCready reaches up. Deacon feels MacCready’s palm slide across his cheek, coming to rest at the hinge of his jaw, beneath his ear. MacCready’s thumb swipes gently across his skin. Deacon’s eyes flutter closed, and he takes a single, shuddering breath that makes his ribs ache. 

“I care about you. A lot,” MacCready says softly.

Deacon takes another shaky breath, opening his eyes again. “MacCready…”

The corner of MacCready’s mouth twists up, and Deacon watches helplessly, because he can’t seem to tear his eyes away from MacCready’s lips. In a whisper, MacCready says, “You only call me that when you’re serious.”

He leans closer. Oh, god. It’s slow, deliberate, the kind of touch and the kind of space Deacon could easily pull away from. He should. He really fucking should. Something in his head screams at him not to let this happen.

Deacon curls his fingers into his palms. His lips part, his tongue darting out to wet them. He feels MacCready’s fingers press lightly into the back of his neck. His eyes slide shut. And he lets MacCready pull him down into a kiss.

It’s a small, tentative thing. Just a brush of their lips, held close for a moment. Like a question, pressed warm and gentle to Deacon’s skin. Then MacCready pulls back, just a bare inch, to look up at Deacon through his lashes. And Deacon… He…

He unlocks his fingers, and fists them in the loose bulk of the leather jacket on either side of MacCready’s chest. Then Deacon tilts his chin, leans back down, and kisses him back.

If the first kiss had been a question, this was the resounding answer.

He kisses MacCready with the kind of feeling—the kind of conviction—he’d barely allowed himself to acknowledge was there. It blazes to life as their lips meet again, like a shower of sparks bursting down his arms, over his shoulders, and through every bit of skin MacCready’s hand touches. Coarse hair scratches gently at Deacon’s cheek, his jaw, as he presses close and sucks lightly on MacCready’s bottom lip. MacCready gasps into Deacon’s mouth, and his hand tightens, reflexive, against Deacon’s neck. He tastes of smoke, and Deacon chases that bitter hint with his tongue. MacCready opens, _yields_, and Deacon melts into him. He crushes the folds of the jacket in his restless fists, desperate to pull him closer by it, halted by the phantom promise of pain in his rib. Distantly, he hears the thump of MacCready’s hat hitting the floor, and then his other hand slides up Deacon’s shoulder. Deacon feels the odd press of the Pip Boy at MacCready’s wrist, and then the teasing brush of fingertips at the base of his throat. They part and turn and meet again, slick and needy and perfect. 

When he finally pulls away to breathe, Deacon leans his forehead against MacCready’s and keeps his eyes shut. He ignores how sore it makes him to pant for air, because he can feel the heat of MacCready’s own ragged breaths fanning across his chin, and that makes every twinge he feels worth it. His hands clench in MacCready’s jacket again as he whispers, “Bobby,” sounding as raw and undone as he feels. When had that become an endearment?

He swallows when he feels MacCready’s thumb slide over his cheekbone again. The soft trail of it burns across his skin like a brand. He wants to feel it again, and again. 

But instead he leans away a little, and opens his eyes. MacCready’s wearing an expression Deacon’s never seen, that he couldn't describe if he tried, his lips kiss-swollen and still parted. His eyes slowly open. Deacon wants to grab him close, kiss him again, kiss him until nothing else matters.

But oh god, it really fucking matters.

And like that, the panic rushes back. It claws up his throat, tearing the warm feeling in his chest to shreds. It hits all at once, hard and sharp, like the snap of his rib.

“Bobby—” he chokes out, his brow pinching. “MacCready, I—I can’t.”

Deacon watches MacCready’s expression slowly start to shift, and then he has to look away. MacCready’s hands slide off his shoulders.

“Did I—read this wrong?” he says, and Deacon hates himself for the hesitation he hears there.

“No, god no,” Deacon says, shaking his head.

“Is there someone else?” MacCready prompts again. 

Deacon barely swallows down a bitter, hysterical laugh in time. “There hasn’t been someone else in—” He shakes his head again. “I never thought I’d feel like this again.”

“That makes two of us,” MacCready says quietly.

“That’s—that’s exactly why I—why we can’t,” Deacon says. He’s still holding onto MacCready’s coat, fingers digging in hard. “Being with me—it’s going to put you in danger. Carrington wasn’t wrong, bringing you here at all was dangerous enough, but not the way he thinks. It’s dangerous to _you_.”

“Deacon—”

“No, listen. I’ve watched people—good people—lose their whole families because the Institute figured out who they were, and exactly how to hurt them, for information or to send a message or because they’re sadistic fucks. They’re ruthless. You don’t know what they can do.” 

Too many memories flood his mind at once, and whatever warmth is left in him from their kiss dissolves as they come. 

He remembers standing in Songbird’s living room, in the home he didn’t know she had, watching her shoulders heave as she sobbed into her knees and didn’t look at her husband, at the blood drying on his knees and his fingers and in his hair as he lay, lifeless, on the couch.

He remembers finding Persephone slumped in the long grass of a field outside Lexington, her kneecaps cracked, her arms broken, her eyes wide and blank, and the synths she’d been running long gone.

He remembers hiding, shaking, on the floor of his first HQ among the bodies of the other runners, trying not to move his eyes, trying not to breathe, with someone else’s blood striping his nose and his elbows, and soaking the toe of his shoe. He listened to the lasers slicing the air, the footsteps rumbling across the floor, the screams in another room, and prayed they wouldn’t see he was alive.

He remembers crawling out of a sewer pipe into the fog-choked woods with Roger’s last breath in his ears, his hands sweating and shaking and slipping on the keyboard as he locked the door behind those of them that made it out.

He remembers staring down at Barbara’s face, pale and stiff in his hands. It wasn’t the Institute. It doesn’t matter.

Deacon bows his head. When he speaks again, the words scrape out of his throat. “I wish to god I didn’t know what it looks like. And I’ll be damned before I let that happen to you.”

MacCready studies his face for a long moment, as though trying to decipher something in Deacon’s eyes. Deacon wonders how many ghosts he can see there. Carefully, quietly, MacCready says, “Deacon, I’m... not exactly helpless here. I told you before, I’m almost constantly around people that want to kill me—”

“Not like this,” Deacon says. His hands finally loosen and drop. “I can’t—I can’t be the reason you don’t get to—” He can’t even form the rest of the words, just lets them burn like bile on his tongue.

“Look, I—I get it. I get what I’m walking into, but I’m making that choice. I can take that risk,” MacCready says, on the edge of pleading.

Deacon purses his lips. “I don’t think that I can.” 

He lifts his head. All the softness in MacCready’s face is gone. Deacon closes his eyes, shutting it out. He steps back, once, and then again. “I’m sorry.” 

Then he turns, walking slowly to the door, his eyes stinging. He doesn’t look back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [dodges tomatoes] OKAY I KNOW, I KNOW, I'M SORRY. I promise you there will be a happy ending. Please stay on the ride a little longer. We just have to Jane Austen our way there. 
> 
> 1) This is one of the chapters I've had planned since before I started writing. This is also where I had originally planned to end the first fic when I envisioned this as a three part fic series. See, I could've been a lot meaner... 
> 
> 2) Reiterating the great debt I owe to the ScriptMedic tumblr and a few other medical websites. I'll also reiterate I'm treating stimpaks like an accelerated healing treatment, but not a miracle cure. They'll cut the normal healing time in half, but not instantly cure. Also don't take Carrington giving Deacon a sleeping pill as condoning that as a good idea for an injured/concussed person. He's not exactly doctor of the year.
> 
> 3) Took a lot of creative license with Desdemona's backstory since we never get one in the game, so apologies if anything sounds weird or doesn't seem to fit. Same for other members of the Railroad. Basically anywhere they haven't filled in the blanks is now my playground.
> 
> 4) I've been dying to push in my headcanon that Deacon and Glory have a weird sort-of sibling relationship and I'm so glad I finally have an excuse. 
> 
> Chapter 14 is finished, and I'm halfway through the draft for Chapter 15. I'll post once that's finished. Thanks for hanging in there with me.


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A few weeks into his recovery, Deacon's living out of Mercer Safehouse, and it's not helping. Even with visitors.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, I promised I would try to make the wait short after the last chapter. Welcome to The Chapter In Which We Pine. My thanks as always to the great **serenityfails** for the beta. And my thanks to all of you reading this. I was so nervous the last chapter would put you all off, but so many of you were so kind in the comments and I just appreciate it so much. I'm so grateful you're hanging in there with me.
> 
> Forgot to mention in my nervousness last time: I've got a playlist on Spotify for this fic, and if you all are interested I'll share it, once it's no longer spoilery. But I can now say that the theme song for this whole fic is "You and I" by PVRIS. I can't tell you how often I've been using it to keep me motivated. And I've imagined the unplugged version playing in the background of like every soft moment Deacon and MacCready have in this fic. So, if you want a little mood music...
> 
> No warnings for this chapter! Hope you enjoy!

He dreams of ruins.

Blackened beams of wood rise out of a bed of sand. They reach high overhead, the roof a charred, crooked crown. It’s ripped open in patches, letting shingles and light hang down between. It smells of ash, and salt, and rain. 

It is raining as he walks between the beams. They stand like the bones of a house, or a ship, like a scorched ribcage half-sunken into the sand. He walks from beam to beam, bone to bone, the bare suggestion of rooms now burnt of their walls. Rain drips in from the torn ceiling. He catches a drop on his temple, and it slides from cheek to chin. Another fades into the shoulder of his shirt. It swells and recedes, the rain; pounding, then just tapping, changing with the wind. 

He reaches toward a beam and it bends back from his hand. He hears the wood groan as it moves. Then it straightens again to meet his palm. He pulls his hand back and looks at it. Black soot cakes his fingers. He looks up, and reaches out again. The beam curves away, and creaks, and when it straightens again, it cracks.

He looks around. The whole of the house begins to move like that, in time with the crescendo of the rain. Bending out, then back, cracking and splintering with each breath. Because it does look like it’s breathing. 

And then the roof crashes in.

\----

It’s raining when Deacon wakes up. 

He could see it out the window if he turned his head. He hears it tapping at the glass, insistent, like it’s trying to get in. And succeeding: he feels a drop suddenly splash across his cheek. He glares up at the ceiling, where a little wet spot is spreading across the two-day old patchwork square right above his head. He wonders if it’ll warp the panelling they put up yesterday, or if that’s a thing you should worry about with houses. He doesn’t know enough about how to build them. Or piece them back together, anyway. He doesn’t know what holds a house together at all, or what breaks it down again. Time, maybe. And mistakes.

Well, he can start with a bucket. Or a box. Hell, even a cup would help. He sits up and glances blearily around the room he’s claimed. His bed is little more than a mattress on the floor with a couple blankets and pillows thrown on top of it. It’s shoved up against one wall. Across from it sits an old, scratched up desk with a creaky little chair, situated between two windows. There’s a dresser near the door, just as scratched as the desk, with Deacon’s pack slouching on top of it. And there, in the far corner, is a little metal garbage pail, solid on all sides. Deacon peels the blanket back and slowly climbs off the mattress. The wood floor is cold against his feet as he pads over to the corner. 

He’s about eight days into his stay in Nahant, at what was once Croup Manor—now Mercer Safehouse—and it hasn’t grown on him. It’s got a distinct lack of feral ghouls bounding out of the bowels of the house this time, so there’s progress for you. But they can’t seem to get the roof patched right, and the yard smells of rotten fish bones, and the basement still looks like a shipwreck. Several walls still gape open on the second floor. Deacon’s not exactly particular about where he sleeps, but “not actively raining into the bed” doesn’t strike him as an unreasonable request. He trusts that Anthony has a vision for the place, and that it’ll come together like Sanctuary and Starlight and County Crossing came together. It’s just that, right now? This place looks like shit. 

If you wanted Deacon’s opinion, which the sparse handful of Minutemen-disguised Railroad and Minutemen-turned-Railroad that he had for company rarely seemed to, the bar should’ve been the first thing they fixed. Always keep morale up when you’re isolating people on what might as well be an island and arming them all with hammers. Double or nothing when that sort-of island also reeks of everything awful about the sea. And sits within spitting distance of an entire settlement of raiders. But no, they have to “do the practical thing” and “use their time wisely.” 

Deacon sticks the garbage pail down in the center of the bed. He steps back, resting his hands on his hips, and watches a drop plunk against the bottom, splashing out over the rim and onto the sheets below. Deacon scowls, sighs, and yanks it back off the bed. Then he bends down and shoves his hands under the foot of the mattress, digging his fingers in. His side twinges a little as he leans forward. He ignores it. He lifts the mattress with a grunt, dragging it until the backs of his thighs collide with the desk chair. He drops it, and then marches back over to shove the garbage pail under the water spot on the ceiling. 

His rib is healed. Mostly. He’d given bedrest the old college try (he really needs to remember to ask Anthony what the fuck that saying means), and lasted two solid weeks, which is about thirteen days longer than he thought he’d last. It still aches when he twists too hard, or runs too hard, or breathes too hard. Yeah, all right, maybe Carrington’s barking had a little sense peppered in there somewhere. Deacon kept up with the stimpaks and the breathing exercises, at any rate. But after two weeks stuck in that tiny catacombs with nothing to do but hobble laps around the coffins and listen to the live rendition of Tinker Tom’s Lecture on Theories of Institute Subterfuge: Old World Box Dinner Edition, he was about two inches from digging his way out with his bare hands. With his teeth, if he had to. He’d had the fleeting thought as Tom droned on, pacing from his computer to Deacon’s chair and back again, that MacCready was going to laugh his ass off when Deacon told him about this. And with that stupid, traiterous thought, he’d stopped listening to Tom altogether. 

Because there’s… you know, that.

Anyway, Deacon lasted until Anthony finally came back to see Desdemona. The moment one of them brought up Mercer again, Deacon pounced. 

“Recruiting is light work,” he’d argued, waving off Anthony’s raised eyebrow and Desdemona’s frown, and ignoring Carrington’s silent glare altogether. “I won’t do the building thing. You don’t _want_ me to do the building thing. But I can—”

“Maybe you should come back to Sanctuary with me, if you’re well enough to travel. Weston could keep an eye on the recovery,” Anthony had said, eyeing Deacon.

And Deacon had kept his face very carefully blank, kept all his muscles controlled and still. He didn’t let his jaw tighten, didn’t let his fingers bunch into the fabric of his jeans, like he wanted to. His voice had been clear and even. “Mercer’s top priority, and we need to start recruiting yesterday. Should’ve already had the place filled by now, really, so I need to get to work. Thanks for the offer, though.” 

Keeping his head facing forward, he’d dropped his eyes, staring at a couple of papers scattered across the war table. He didn’t want to see Anthony’s face. He didn’t want to know if Anthony knew.

So, Nahant it was. Nahant it is. 

It isn’t helping. 

Deacon slumps down on the end of the mattress, kicking the desk chair away. He rests his elbows on his knees and scrubs a hand over his eyes. The rain knocks a little louder on the window panes, and the drip from the ceiling grows more steady, smacking the bottom of the pail in a staccato rhythm. Deacon sighs again, and drops his hands to hang between his knees. 

He’s thought about that morning in the Church every goddamn day in the three weeks since it happened. Every detail of it burns in his memory. MacCready’s triumphant grin, the phantom feeling of his fingers on Deacon’s skin, the ghost of his lips. The ache in his voice. 

How do you miss someone that isn’t yours to miss? That was never supposed to have a place in your life to leave empty? Deacon knows this was the only way. The only answer he could’ve given, if he had any hope of keeping MacCready safe. But does it have to keep hurting so fucking much?

Well, if there’s anything he knows how to do, it’s lose someone. Maybe that’s all he knows how to do. He’s lost so much, he’s not sure he knows how to keep anything. 

_See?_ he wants to say to the memory of MacCready in his head, the one with the shattered smile falling in pieces from his lips as he watches Deacon walk away. _See how much better it will be without me? See how little I deserve the things you said about me?_

Those things had leaked back into his head, little by little. _You see this good in people._ Words that left him speechless and burning. _You make me feel like maybe I really can be better._ The more he tried not to think of them, the louder the memory of them grew. _You make me want to try._

He hadn’t known what to say then. He hardly knows what he’d say now. That no, no, he’s not some great guy that goes around helping people because he’s just that righteous and thoughtful? Anthony’s kind of got the monopoly on altruistic do-gooding? That’s not who Deacon is. It’s just who he owes it to the past to try to be. What he does now is the only way to make up for the man he was—the man he is, still, underneath the wigs and the glasses and the faces, so many different faces. The man he keeps trying to bury.

_I’m not who you think I am._

He feels another drop of water slide down his cheek. He frowns, lifting his hand to swipe at it, and cranes his neck to squint at the ceiling. It’s dry. He looks at his hand, and then feels another drop slide down the other cheek. He touches his fingers there. Is he...? 

He stands, sniffs, and roughly drags the back of his hand across his cheekbones, one and then the other. He needs to get dressed. He needs to get to work. He needs to… find someone to fix the fucking hole in his ceiling. 

He grabs his pack off the dresser and moves it to the desk. He pulls out shirt after shirt after pair of pants, tossing them onto the bed as he goes. When he pulls out the last shirt at the bottom, his hand brushes up against something hard. He drops the shirt onto the mattress and pulls the top of his pack open wider. He reaches in, and finds himself holding a smaller bag that clinks lightly against his fingers. It’s the bag of things from his shelves in Sanctuary. 

He stares at it, then squeezes his eyes shut. His hand tightens. His arm lifts. For just a moment, he wants to throw it against the wall. But he doesn’t. He sets it back down on the bottom and ties the pack closed. He sets it down under the desk, and then turns to the clothes strewn across his bed. He takes a deep breath, ignoring the faint prod of discomfort at his side, and starts to tug the nearest pair of pants up over his ankles.

\----

“How’s it going?”

Deacon looks up from the trunk he’s rifling through. Anthony stands on the landing of the stairs leading down into Mercer’s basement, leaning down a little to see into the room. Deacon’s standing at the far wall, in what was probably some kind of office, once upon a better world, judging by the desk and the old computer terminal. It’s going to become a panic room, if they can ever figure out how to drain the lake between it and the stairs.

To answer, Deacon straightens and spreads his hands to encompass the whole flood. Anthony chuckles. “Yeah,” he says, “My hopes weren’t high. Thought you weren’t supposed to be doing any heavy lifting?”

“I have done my three weeks of penance as the doctor demanded,” Deacon says. “Anyway, this isn’t heavy lifting, it’s snooping. Much easier on the back.”

“Find anything good?” Anthony comes down another step, but stops short of the water.

Deacon looks down into the trunk. “Four water-damaged books, a wet flashlight, and two soggy blankets? Oh, wait, time to get excited, I think I see a throw pillow.”

“Jackpot,” Anthony says, smirking. He watches Deacon shut the trunk and then says, “Feel up for a walk?”

“Is this the kind of walk that involves raider pirates on junk boats?” Deacon raises an eyebrow over his sunglasses.

“Raider-free, I promise,” Anthony says. “I think it might even smell better than down here. Marginally.”

“Sold, let me just find a canoe,” Deacon says, reaching out to steady himself on the desk as he wades forward.

It’s day ten of his stay in Nahant, not that he’s counting. The rain finally let up yesterday, leaving the yard muddy. Deacon had hoped it would wash away the dead fish stink clinging to the whole peninsula, but now it just smells like _wet_ dead fish. But Anthony’s right, he’ll take that with fresh air over the way it’s stewing in this moldy cauldron of a basement.

He’d found a pair of rubber boots in one of the other houses down the lane. They’re a size too big and feel like they’re sucking on his ankles when he walks, but he doesn’t have to soak his other shoes to come down here if he wears them. Scavenging is one of the few things he’s been able to do while his injuries heal, besides training up the Railroad recruits between building sessions. Which he actually enjoys doing, most of the time. It feels like settling into an old, familiar routine, and feels productive. He prefers it to junk hunting, but repair work takes priority, and that leaves him with too much time to himself. Picking through the trash scattered among the untouched houses keeps the quiet from gnawing at him, even if the only interesting thing he’s found so far outside of a few scattered caps has been a semi-intact photo album. (He’d spent the afternoon flipping through it, page after page of kids smiling up at him from a sandy beach, showing off their lumpy sand castles, pushing each other into the waves. A few of what he assumes to be their parents, too, stretched beneath an umbrella, arms around each other. It just reminds him of sitting in the church steeple with MacCready, wondering how anyone was ever that carefree. He’d shut the album back in the drawer he’d found it in.) 

“They’re not giving you much trouble, are they?” Anthony asks, once Deacon comes back from his room in clean shoes. Anthony’s looking out one of the front windows, and when Deacon gives him a questioning look, he points toward the woods. “The raiders.”

“Oh. No, not at all, actually. They haven’t even poked at the gate,” Deacon says. 

Anthony frowns. “That is…” 

“Really fucking weird? Yeah,” Deacon says. “Couple of the guards have seen them lurking on the wharf, but no closer.”

Anthony looks back out the window. He narrows his eyes a little. “What’s your read on it?”

“If I had to guess? They figured out we’re building to stay, and they’re going to wait until we’re finished and launch a full assault,” Deacon says.

“Let us do all the work and then pull the rug.” Anthony turns back around and sighs. “I need to get more turrets out here.”

“Timetable depends on how smart they are,” Deacon adds. “If they wait out the winter, they could attack after crops are planted. Or hope the cold picks off our numbers. But raiders aren’t usually thinking that far ahead.”

Anthony nods distantly. Then his eyes refocus, and he nods toward the door. Deacon follows him out to the porch. 

The railing is still damp, and puddles darken a few dips in the pavement. They glint in the sun that spills into the driveway from over the treetops, shortening the shadow of the fence that curves around the edge. A couple turrets rattle on either side, slowly turning back and forth. Deacon glances up at the wide stone block in the center of the driveway, the one that clearly held some kind of statue once. 

“You ever come out this way? Before everything went to shit?” Deacon asks. He slides his hands into his pockets as they head toward the gate.

Ahead of him, Anthony shrugs. “Not really. We drove over to Salem a few times, but there wasn’t much else to bring us here.”

_Us._ Still that instinctual “we,” long after it should be a hollow pronoun. Deacon had done that too, for a while, on the rare occasions someone poked at the bloatfly nest of his past. He wonders if Anthony even knows he does it. He wonders if the habit is fading, now that Preston’s stepped into that odd, empty space. He knows better than to ask.

“Did it always smell like this, or is this a lovely gift from the future?” he says instead, after Anthony waves and nods to the guard perched over the fence.

Anthony chuckles, falling into step beside him as they pass outside the gate. “Depends, I guess. There’s always been that briney ocean smell, but—I think the rot is new.”

“I was about to wonder how anyone would willingly live here, if that was the case,” Deacon says.

“I’m surprised you’re willingly living here.” Anthony glances over at him.

“This is work,” Deacon says, keeping his face forward. Anthony doesn’t respond, but Deacon can still feel his eyes all the way to the end of the driveway. 

As they round the corner, turning to walk further down the lane, Deacon sighs. “Bullseye, I have to look at enough dead fish in this stupid place. I really don’t need you gaping at me like one. If you wanna talk about something, then let’s talk.”

“Sorry,” Anthony says. Deacon chances cutting his eyes over without turning his head, and finds Anthony looking down at his feet. It takes another moment before he says, “I wanted to… ask how you were doing.” 

“We did that part. Rib’s fine, head’s good, safehouse is coming along, I look forward to leaving,” Deacon says. “Still working on recruitment but it’s—”

“I think you know that’s not what I mean.”

Deacon slowly closes his mouth. They walk past the sagging dockside bar, and Deacon gazes longingly through the broken window. Then he kicks at a loose bit of gravel that hits his shoe. In the distance, he hears hammers clattering against wood.

“What do you want me to say, Bullseye?” he finally replies, keeping his tone carefully level.

“Deacon, I’m not here to pry. What happened is between you and him. You just—you’ve been out here awhile, and—”

Deacon stops shy of the leaf-strewn driveway of the next empty house, and turns to face him. “I know you haven’t known me very long, but I do this sometimes. Head out somewhere. I don’t like sitting still. But I’m not bugging out on you, all right? This isn’t going to affect my work ethic or whatever.”

“Deacon.” Anthony stops too, and tilts his head a little. “This isn’t a performance review. I’m not here for—for the Minutemen, and Desdemona didn’t send me either. I’m just checking on my friend.”

Okay, Deacon kind of gets it now. Why those words brought MacCready up short on the hilltop outside Lexington. Deacon just sort of stares at Anthony for a moment. There’s a part of him that whispers _now you have even more to lose_, and another part that whispers, _maybe you haven’t lost everything_, and he can’t deal with either one. So he just looks away, and mumbles, “Shouldn’t you be chewing me out right now? Shovel talk? Something?”

Anthony folds his arms over his chest. “First of all, even if I was angry with you, MacCready wouldn’t want me fighting his battles for him. It took him long enough to work up the nerve to ask me when he had an _actual_ battle to fight. Second of all, he’s not angry with you either. And third—”

“He’s not?” Deacon says, before he can stop himself, looking up. 

Anthony gives him a bit of a searching look and Deacon goes right back to staring at the pothole a foot up the road. “He’s…” Anthony takes a long breath. “He’s hurt. He’s sad, and confused.” 

Deacon nods slowly. He keeps staring at the pothole, carved into the smooth expanse of the pavement like a wound. Deacon starts to chew on the inside of his cheek and then stops himself. 

Anthony takes a small step closer, and lowers his voice a little. “Third of all, I’ve been a spy, remember? I lived that life. And I know it’s not exactly the same, but… I know better than most that it’s not a life designed to make relationships easy.” 

Deacon closes his eyes for a moment. His head is loud. He ignores it and files through his body instead, eliminating tells one by one. He keeps his hands still in his pockets. He keeps his shoulders level. He keeps his feet planted. Once he trusts his voice, he says quietly, “You don’t have to do this, okay? I know you’ve got… a lot to worry about. You don’t need to add me to the list.”

Anthony looks at him for a moment. Deacon can see it from his periphery when he opens his eyes again. Then he just nods slowly, and turns, starting to walk up the lane again. Deacon takes a deep breath, pleasantly surprised when it doesn’t even catch a little on his side, and then catches up. “Hey, I’m not… ungrateful. Thanks for, um. Asking.”

Anthony looks over, and the corner of his mouth tugs up a little. “It’s all right.”

They walk on in silence, until they draw up close to the church. The sound of the hammering grows louder, echoing out from the open door, a syncopated rhythm with the tide sweeping the rocks beyond.

“Anyway, that wasn’t the only thing I came here for,” Anthony finally says, stopping on the path up to the church. “I found a lead. On my son.” 

Deacon looks up. “Shit, man, that’s—that’s good, right?”

“Maybe. But it’s bigger than just that,” Anthony says. He stares vacantly at Deacon’s shoulder for a moment, like he’s piecing the words together in his head. “We got some of Kellogg’s implants, Nick and I, after we killed him, and Amari was finally able to crack the brain implant using Nick as a… I don’t know, facilitator, I guess. It’s a long story. But basically, we used the pods and entered some of Kellogg’s memories.”

“Jesus,” Deacon murmurs.

Anthony drops his head. “Yeah, it was… a lot. But the important thing is that we learned two things. One, the cryo in the Vault sort of—fucked my perception of time. I thought I was looking for an infant, because that’s what I saw: Kellogg kidnapping my baby. But I’m looking for a ten year old boy.” 

“Fuck. I’m—I’m sorry.” Deacon frowns, pulling his hands free of his pockets.

“Two,” Anthony continues, looking up again, “I know why no one’s been able to find the Institute. And it’s a long shot, but… I think I might have a way to reach them.”

Deacon gapes. He pulls off his sunglasses, then looks around. The churchyard is mostly empty. Two of the recruits stand on either side of a sawhorse far to the other side of the church, both leaning down to examine a piece of paper. If they’ve noticed Anthony and Deacon, they don’t seem that interested. Still, Deacon tugs Anthony further down toward the shore, where the waves might muffle their voices. 

“Okay, what the _fuck_?” he says, stopping a few feet from a half-sunken dock. 

Anthony glances around them, and keeps his voice low. “He had Shaun in a house in Diamond City. A Courser came to take him to the Institute, and he… Deacon, I know this will sound crazy, but I’m positive he teleported.”

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Deacon says, pacing toward the waves and then back. “It does sound crazy. But it also explains… fuck, so much. And if they have the technology to build literal humans from scratch—” Deacon circles his hand to finish the sentence.

“That’s exactly what I thought too,” Anthony says. 

“You told Dez already, right? Holy shit.”

“I told her on my way here. And that’s not even the end of it.”

Deacon’s eyes widen. “There’s _more_?”

“In the memory, the Courser ordered Kellogg to go after a scientist that fled the Institute. If he fled, that might mean he’d be willing to work against them, or at least tell me about them, or where they are, or how to get in. Something. So I’m going after him,” Anthony says. His face hardens a little, determined, like he thinks Deacon might argue with him, or someone else had already tried.

Deacon’s not going to argue with him. “Do you need help? Listen, the rib’s seriously fine, I can—”

A smile cracks that stone-faced look. “Thanks, Deacon. Really. But if you hate Nahant, I don’t think you’re going to be a fan of the Glowing Sea.”

“The—I’m sorry, the Glowing fucking Sea?” Deacon says, eyes widening again. 

“I know. But that’s where he’s hiding. Which means he really, really doesn’t want them to find him, and means my odds of getting something out of him are better,” Anthony says.

“Bullseye, tell me you understand what you’re walking into.”

“I do. I know. Why do you think I don’t want you coming with me? Preston tried too, and so did MacCready. I know we have enough power armor to make it feasible but that’s a big enough risk to take on my own. If it breaks, or… or anything else? I know it’s crazy. But I have to do this. I’d cross a hundred Glowing Seas if I knew Shaun was waiting at the other end.” He swallows, a flicker of sadness pinching his brow. 

Deacon winces. “Shit, right, of course.”

Anthony sighs again. “It’s bigger than just that, I know, but. Anyway, I was going to ask Nick if he’d come with, but I think he needs… uh, to recover. From all of this. And I ran into Hancock while we were in Goodneighbor. I kept the Railroad out of it, don’t worry. He thought it sounded insane, the stupidest idea he’d ever heard, and demanded to come with.” 

Deacon can’t help a short huff of a laugh. “Yeah, that sounds about right. But listen, seriously, be careful.”

“I will. You’ll keep an eye on things here?”

“Sure, man,” Deacon says. An uneasy feeling settles in his stomach. He’s quiet for a moment, batting back the words crowding his tongue before he finally gives him. “I mean it though, stay safe. You can’t drop your friendship on me and then just disappear, okay?” 

Anthony gives him a small smile. “I wouldn’t do that to you.”

“Yeah, you better fucking not,” Deacon says. He crosses his arms, looking away, out toward the dock. 

“You know that goes both ways, right?”

Deacon looks back quickly. “Bullseye, I told you, I’m not—”

“All right, just throwing it out there. I should check on the church,” Anthony says. “I’ll, uh, see you for dinner?” 

Deacon nods. Anthony reaches out to squeeze his shoulder and then turns to walk back around toward the church’s front entrance. Deacon stays near the shore. He steps closer, right at the edge of the rocks the waves keep lapping up against. His thoughts race, crashing into each other, and he can’t settle on one long enough to even feel anxious about it. So he just watches the water. 

\----

On day twelve, Deacon stands just inside Goodneighbor’s front gate in leather pants and a wig of long, stringy brown hair. The sun is setting, so the cobblestones are bathed in the yellow and blue of the neon signs on the wall overhead, and everyone’s beginning to drift toward the Third Rail. Deacon keeps his head bent, and hunches his shoulders as he slips into the thin crowd. He strolls past the alley, past the benches outside, and under the swinging string of subway lights. He can already hear the music, a bright burst of brass.

He’d kept his recruitment efforts close to Nahant the other two times he’d tried, uncertain how much travel even a well-healing broken rib could take. He’d played the passing scavenger at the Finch farmhouse, and the Slog. The next time he grew bolder, pushing as far as the County Crossing Bazaar, and he’d picked up a couple recruits on that one. He’d been a little sore the next day, but nothing he couldn’t push through. That had been almost a week ago, now. He’d felt ready to push himself further. He’d also run out of empty rooms to rifle through on the peninsula, and god did he need to hear something other than hammering for one day. Hell, he’d even listen to the Minutemen slowly murder a violin on the radio and call it an improvement. And all right, he’s… tired of worrying about Anthony, and wondering if MacCready’s all right, and spinning in endless circles in his own head. So, road trip.

He hasn’t tried this look in Goodneighbor in a long time. He’s smudged a little dirt over his cheeks and the bridge of his nose, and zipped himself into a leather vest that hugs his torso—as much protection as disguise. The hair of the wig hangs below his chin, brushing his shoulders, straggly and unkempt. If anyone asks, his name is Eric, he’s a drifter from somewhere north of the city, and any other questions get a hazy look and some slurred nonsense. Maybe he’s drunk, maybe it’s chems, maybe he’s not worth talking to. He’ll find himself a dark corner, and he’ll order his first drink in what feels like a decade, and he’ll listen.

He’s found some of his best recruits in the Third Rail. Roger, for one. And Drummer Boy. He’d met Dutchman there, and first heard rumors about Tommy Whispers. Tack on the tourists and the informats he’s collected over the years, and the list might drag to the floor. It’s probably no wonder Whitechapel Charlie seems to recognize him no matter what he wears, if he really stops to think about it. 

He lets the crowd carry him through the door, and down the stairs. The smell of smoke hits him first, heavy and warm. He hasn’t had a cigarette either, since Dayton, and he closes his eyes a little as he breathes in the lingering traces. He pushes his hands into his pants pockets and wonders if it’s worth the risk to try and bum a smoke off someone later.

The crowd is growing, spreading over the room, but not so thick he has to elbow his way to the bar. Magnolia croons over the recording piping through the speakers, red lips bright in the spotlight. Deacon leans on the counter when he reaches it and watches her while he waits for Charlie. Her toe taps to the rhythm of the song, rocking back on the pointed heel and then forward again. The sparkles on her dress wink and shift. 

He hears a glass slide over the counter near his ear. He turns. A whiskey neat sits in front of him, the liquid swaying a little against the sides. Deacon looks up into one large, mechanical eye, and nods his thanks. He plucks a pouch out of his pocket and sets it down without a word. Then he turns his back to Magnolia to survey the empty tables, scanning through the milling crowd.

His eyes fall on a green hat four stools down from where he stands, and his heart stops. No. There is no fucking way his luck is that bad.

Deacon cradles the glass close to his chest and casually circles away from the counter and around the tables closer to the stage. He keeps his head down—not low enough not to see, but low enough to let the hair of the wig fall over his cheeks. When he’s nearly halfway across the room he pauses, and looks again. And it is. It is MacCready, back in the duster, scarf tucked inside the collar. He sits sideways on the stool with a beer in one hand and a cigarette in the other. Daisy perches on the stool next to him, red light from the bar sign spilling across her face. Her mouth stretches into a thin smile, and she says something that makes MacCready smile back weakly. His shoulders shrug forward, the vague impression of a laugh. He draws his cigarette to his lips.

And Deacon aches.

His eyes dart to the table nearest to where they’re sitting. It’s empty. The chairs all sit vacant, and not too close, just close enough to let him catch their voices rising over the music and the din. He could just sit down, just for a few minutes. God, he misses the sound of MacCready’s voice. How is that a thing he misses? But he does. And the way MacCready laughs, too. Especially when Deacon really has to tease it out of him, has to push that little grin that curls up on his lips until it grows, and grows…

Deacon looks away. No. He’s lost the right to hear that sound. He made the choice to give it up. He walked away. He has to live with that. And he has no right whatsoever to listen in on their conversation, even if it felt like the want was going to cave his chest in on itself. Maybe he made his living eavesdropping on conversations he wasn’t invited to, but not like this. Not with him. 

Deacon slinks to a high top table in the far corner of the room. It’s tucked well into the shadows, near the tunnel full of rubble. Even the glow of the string lights criss-crossing the room hardly reaches it. He climbs up on the chair and takes a long drink. Then he sets his glass next to the little tealight candle guttering in a mason jar on the table’s edge. And he looks again. Because he can’t fucking help it.

MacCready’s tugged the brim of his hat lower, the way he does when he’s trying to say something honest and has to fidget it out. The beer bottle now sits on the counter next to him, freeing one hand to trace idly along the counter’s edge. His eyes follow his fingers. He talks on, looking down all the while, pausing every now and again to take a drag. After a few minutes, Daisy reaches across to pat his knee. That’s when he finally looks up again. And even with a couple tables putting distance between them, Deacon can see the sadness in his eyes. Deacon grabs his glass and drains it in three heavy gulps.

He watches Daisy lean forward a little. MacCready’s looking up at her, nodding, and Deacon thinks, _thank god_. Thank god he has someone to listen to him, and pat his knee, and tell him something sympathetic and reasonable. Someone he hopes is telling him to forget all about that jerk that broke his heart. Someone he hopes is telling him he’s better off. 

The music cuts out, and applause scatters through the room. MacCready looks over his shoulder, and claps one hand against his palm as he balances the cigarette. Daisy claps along with him, tilting her head to see around him. Magnolia nods and smiles and thanks them all, and when the music returns it’s softer, slower. Her eyes close when she sings the first note. Deacon needs another drink.

But he doesn’t dare chance the bar again now. He waits in the dark instead, letting Magnolia’s voice ache in his ears, and tries to make himself pick out other conversations, other people. They slide by him and out of reach. His eyes just keep roaming back to MacCready’s face. Deacon watches him smoke down one cigarette and light up another. He watches him drink down one beer and wave down another. And Deacon forgets why he came here at all. 

Finally, squeezing his wrist and slipping down off the stool, Daisy leaves. MacCready curls back in over the counter, resting his elbows in front of him. Smoke coils up from between his fingers, but he just stares ahead, unmoving.

Deacon’s eyes flicker down to the empty stool next to him. For a long moment, he stares at that stool. Then he stands, slipping his hands into his pockets again, and weaves around the tables and couches to reach the stairs. He climbs them so fast he nearly trips.

\----

On day fifteen, Deacon glances out the gaping hole in the Manor’s second floor wall as he passes and sees a flash of white hair emerging from the trees along the driveway. He stops, and winds back a few steps, lowering his shades. Glory marches up to the front gate, pausing to talk to the guard as he steps down in front of her. Then he steps back, and she heads toward the house. Deacon meets her at the door. 

He’s greeted by a deep frown. “Does it always smell like—”

“Yes.”

“And there’s no way to—” 

“Nope.” 

“I’m regretting this already,” Glory says, and shoulders past Deacon into the foyer. Deacon pushes the door shut. 

“Well, to what do we owe the honor?” he says, following after her as she shows herself into the living room and looks around. “You can’t tell me you were in the neighborhood, because literally no one is in the neighborhood. There’s one road in and out.” 

“Yeah, and it’s a piece of shit. Runs here are going to suck. There’s no cover for miles.” She strolls up to one of the salvaged paintings hanging on the wall. It’s some kind of farm nestled in a bright green field, and Glory glowers at it. 

“That works both ways, though,” Deacon says. When she looks over at him with a bent brow he adds, “The no cover. Nowhere for them to hide either.”

“Until you get to the raiders waiting at the front gate.” She gives him a pointed look.

“It’s a work in progress.”

She rolls her eyes and then turns, wandering into the center of the room. She spreads her arms. “So, going to give me the grand tour?”

“Sure, what would you like to see first? The subterranean lake where the ferals used to live, the blasted out walls on the second floor, or the leaking roof?” Deacon says.

Glory lowers her hands. “Seriously, why was this place a good idea?” 

“Hey, it’s got a killer view,” Deacon says, nodding toward the back door in the corner. “And just up the road there are some robots that will tell you cool ocean facts that are wrong.” 

“I’m sure that’ll show those raiders,” Glory says. She drops down into the loveseat in the corner. “I actually was in the neighborhood. Sort of. Little cleanup for Stanwix, and Drummer Boy asked me to check some drops on the way back.”

Deacon leans his shoulder on a corner of the wall that juts out across from Glory. “The nearest drop besides ours is—”

“Yours was included in the request.”

“Yeah, but that’s miles away from—”

“God, fine! That wasn’t the only reason.” She leans forward, resting her elbows on her knees, and not quite meeting his eyes. 

Deacon slowly grins. “Oh my god. Glory did you _miss_ me?”

“Not for one fucking second.”

“You came to check on me.” 

She rolls her eyes. “I can now confirm to Dez you haven’t drowned in the sea.” 

“Glory, I’m so touched right now,” Deacon pretends to sniff and rub his eyes under the lenses of his glasses.

“Fuck off.” Glory flips her hair back out of her face. After a moment, she mutters to her knees, “I need some advice.”

“Advice? From me?” Deacon says, pointing at himself. 

“Don’t let it go to your head.”

“Too late.”

Glory scoffs. “Dez is busy and Carrington’s… Carrington, and Tom’s Tom, and Drummer Boy won’t _get it_, so.” She motions at him with a sweep of her hands.

Deacon smirks again. “Always happy to be your last choice.”

“Don’t a big deal out of this, or I’ll tell them all about that one time in Malden, when you—”

“Okay, okay, Jesus,” Deacon says, putting up his hands. “My lips are sealed. What is it?”

Glory folds her hands in front of her, waving them a little in front of her. Then she stands again, and paces across the dirty rug toward the side door, then back again. “Do you remember G5-19?”

Deacon frowns a little in thought. “Uh, yeah. I think so. That was… a while back, right? That was—oh, wait, that was…” He winces. “Yes. I remember.” 

He doesn’t remember why he was in Goodneighbor the night he saw her. He does remember sliding out of the Third Rail pleasantly warm, and tipsy, maybe two drinks shy of properly drunk. He remembers the air cooling his cheeks, and the lights swimming a little above him. And he remembers Glory stomping around the corner, package G5-19 in tow, glaring at the old theater ahead. 

Deacon likes to think he’s seen every shade of anger Glory has. He’s seen enraged, and vengeful, and irate. He’s seen her pissy, and put out. He’s seen her too exhausted to do anything but snap her teeth at anyone that wandered too close. Annoyance might as well be her baseline mood. Exasperated is just about every conversation he’s ever had with her. Hell, he’s even seen her “hangry.” 

But that night? That night was something else. Not “ran into raiders on the way over.” Not “Stockton’s being a cryptic asshole again.” Not even “this is my third run of the night, and I’m fucking done.” No, that night, Glory was… hurt.

She’d barely noticed Deacon as she dragged G5 by him. She was a young woman, close-cropped brown hair, big eyes that darted up to him and then away. Glory marched straight by the benches, the synth nearly jogging to keep up, not a single thought spared for blending into the crowd. So Deacon followed.

Glory met him behind the curtain, by what used to be the dressing vanities for the theater, after Amari closed the door on her. They sat side by side on a pair of old wooden chairs, with the hum of the memory pods and the soft strains of music coming to them from the room beyond. 

G5-19 was part of Glory’s old work crew, she told him. Her closest friend, in that life before. Like family. No one in the world knew Glory like G5-19, she said. She didn’t have to say much more. The way her eyes went soft as she stared at the edge of the curtain, falling quiet, said enough.

“We used to talk about it. What we’d do, when we got out. We had a plan. I was going first, and I’d wait, and she’d follow. But she—” 

He’d watched her fingers curl into her palms. He remembers her knuckles, pale and tight against her knees. “She doesn’t want to stay. With… the Railroad.” Deacon heard the words she didn’t say. They hung heavy in the air between them. _With me_. “She wants to… forget.”

Heartbreak had soured her voice, turning it bitter. Deacon hadn’t known what to say. And then it didn’t matter. Amari had climbed the stairs, and stopped at Glory’s side, wringing her hands. 

He shuts his eyes against the memory of Glory’s scream, and the sound of the chair splintering against the wall, and Amari gasping and stumbling backward. Deacon feels the phantom strain in his fingers of holding Glory back, the hard muscle of her arms as she tried to tear out of his grip. She’d screamed again, this time at Amari, who said something calm, and sympathetic, and wrong.

“I remember,” Deacon says again. He opens his eyes to find Glory still pacing over the rug. “Your friend.” 

A complicated expression twists over Glory’s face, and she stops pacing halfway back to the loveseat. “I’ve been… taking care of her. Ever since the botch job. I found this place, this old apartment, and—anyway, the point is, I’m her caretaker.”

“All right,” Deacon says slowly.

She crosses her arms, gripping them just above the elbows on either side. She looks up at the painting again. “I got a request. From Amari. Well, really from Bullseye.”

“Bullseye?”

“Before he left. I don’t think she would’ve asked me if it hadn’t been him. There’s some friend of his. A robot, I guess, some kind of specialized science model. And she—wants a body. She wants to transfer her mind into a synth body. Or maybe that was Amari’s idea, I don’t know.”

Deacon blinks at her over the top of his sunglasses. “If I hadn’t learned that teleportation is a real thing a few days ago, everything you just said would’ve sounded batshit insane to me.”

“It _is_ insane! It’s an insane thing to ask! They’re asking me to let them put another person inside of her body! To let her body just—just become someone else’s,” Glory says, her nostrils flaring a little and her hands tightening. “That’s what she left the Institute to escape. That’s what she wanted to forget. Not being in control of who she was.”

Deacon winces again. He doesn’t say anything until she tosses her hands up and heaves herself back down on the loveseat again.

“I’m… not really sure what you want my advice with. I’d usually direct questions about the best way to maim Bullseye to you—”

“I just—what if—what if it _is_ what she would want?”

Deacon goes still. Her voice is quiet as she asks, her head bent to look at the floor between her thighs. He unfolds himself from the wall and sits down on the couch slotted in across from the loveseat.

“I thought I knew,” she continues, “I thought I knew her better than anyone and then she—when she escaped, she just wanted it all gone. No matter what else it meant she was going to lose.” Her hands fist into the folds of her coat over her arms. “She would’ve been someone else. She wanted a new life.”

“Has Amari ever done something like this before?” Deacon asks carefully.

“Hell if I know,” Glory says. “Not with a robot, I don’t think.”

Deacon lets out a long breath. “Jesus.”

“Yeah.” He watches her jaw tighten a little, and then she adds, “So I’m asking. In my place, what would you do?”

“Fuck, Glory. I—I don’t know.” The thought of someone else living in his body makes his skin feel like something’s crawling underneath it. He fights down a shiver, and a cold twist of anxiety low in his chest. 

But what if he was never going to use it again anyway? What if he was just wasting away, useless, and still? Was it better to hold his body hostage to a life he couldn’t live, and trap someone else in that life with him? Or was it better to let it go, let them move on, and give this new person a shot at happiness? 

“If I were her,” he says, “I think I’d—rather someone else have a chance, if I couldn’t.”

Glory doesn’t react for a moment. Then she swallows, and closes her eyes, and takes a slow breath.

“Glory, you can say no to this.”

“I know!” she snaps. She purses her lips, and lowers her voice. “I know that.”

She bends her head again, letting her hair fall forward over her face. It doesn’t cover her right eye. Deacon sees the faint glitter of a tear at the corner.

“Hey, whatever you choose, you know you did right by her, right? All that you’ve done up to now?” Deacon says. 

Glory opens her eyes, and looks up at him. They’re a little red, and a little wet. But no tears fall. “Now who’s being too sincere?” 

“I know, gross, right?” Deacon says. The corners of her mouth inch up, just a little.

“This whole fucking place is gross,” she says.

Deacon pushes to his feet. He pulls his shades off and pretends to clean the lenses on his shirt, to give her a second to scrub at her eyes when she thinks he’s not looking. “Want to go bust in some windows?”

“Aren’t they trying to repair them?” Glory says.

“Not yet. They’ll have to take them out anyway.” Deacon glances back at her. He raises his eyebrows. A challenge.

Glory slowly smiles. “Race you.”

\----

On day seventeen, he follows the road down from the safehouse like he does most mornings, to check the drop box.

It’s easy to imagine the beachside diner on the roadside in its glory days: the paint a bright, fresh cream, the windows whole and clean, and the neon sign glowing a crisp red. Did the sand still get everywhere? Did they have people to sweep it back out, or did it collect on the tiles like it does now? Deacon tries to imagine the kids from the photo album he’d found, running up to the window in their swimming shorts, standing on bare tiptoes on the hot sidewalk. They’d be running back to slumping sandcastles on the edge of the surf, not egg nests clumped on the shore.

_Was anyone ever that unafraid?_

As Deacon walks carefully along the road, well past the shipping station beyond the wharf, he stares at the diner and thinks, suddenly, of Duncan. He’d be smaller even than those kids in the photos. Honey brown hair, maybe, like his father. Maybe that same heart-curved upper lip. Maybe the same eyes—a deep, thunderstorm blue. Maybe he doesn’t look like MacCready at all. But that’s who Deacon pictures running around the corner of the diner, scattering sand behind his heels and laughing. Healthy. Strong.

Had the medicine reached him yet? Four weeks had to be enough time for a caravan to reach the Wasteland. Had there been any trouble? Had there been enough guards to keep it safe? Did it work? Is he okay?

When Deacon finally reaches the diner, he stretches his hand out and leans against the side of it for a moment. He takes a few long, deep breaths. He has to be okay. MacCready wouldn’t have been in Goodneighbor a few days ago if Duncan wasn’t okay. Unless that was why he looked so sad. Maybe it had nothing to do with Deacon at all. And maybe MacCready couldn’t leave, with Anthony in the Glowing Sea, and—_breathe, Deacon_.

He does. Long, deep breaths. He feels his chest swell with them, and holds them there, and lets them out. His rib is whole, and stays quiet in his chest. He’s jealous of it.

It takes a few minutes, but his head eventually clears enough to focus. He walks around the side of the diner, checking for mirelurks. He sees two crawling on the shore below, in and out of the tide, turned away. He crouches, keeping low, and inches toward the dented newspaper stand perched on the sidewalk. A rail sign is painted on the side. He reaches through the broken glass, and his hand lands on a holotape. Eyes widening, he pulls it out and stares at it.

Seventeen days in Nahant, and this is the first dead drop he’s received.

He carries it toward the diner’s swinging door, pushing carefully, soundlessly inside. He tucks himself behind the cashier’s counter and slings his mostly-empty pack to the floor. He pulls out the tape recorder he always carries on these walks, and slips the holotape inside. He holds it up to his ear, heart in his throat.

Drummer Boy’s voice crackles out of the speaker. “Shot in the dark landed true. We’ve gotten a Bullseye. Major victory. Time to come home.”

The tape cuts off. Deacon leans back against the shelves, dropping his hand into his lap. Anthony’s okay. Anthony’s okay, and something good happened. Something good happened today.

Outside, he hears the mirelurks crawling through the sand, hears the strange click of their spidery claws. He can outrun them, if he’s quick and careful. They can’t fit through the door, and if he’s quiet, they won’t try. _You’re free to go_, he thinks to himself, looking down at the recorder. He draws his feet up. The mirelurks tap, tap, tap through the sand. He doesn’t move until he can’t hear them at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1) [holds up a giant poster board that just has "DEACON YOU HAVE FRIENDS, LET THEM CARE ABOUT YOU" written in big red bubble letters]
> 
> 2) The Glory/G5-19 backstory is me taking creative license again, so continuing apologies if anything sounds off or doesn't jive with canon. 
> 
> Chapter 15 is finished pending final tweaks, and will post once I have a draft for Chapter 16. I know these have been coming pretty steady, but the next one may take a bit as Chapter 16 is a bit involved, narratively-speaking. Thanks for being patient with me. I have a move coming up in May and I'm trying to get as far as I can in the story before that happens. Anyway, I hope you all are doing okay with the craziness in the world, and hope this helps if you're cooped up inside. Stay safe and take care <3


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Desdemona's sending them to face a Courser. But first, Deacon has to face MacCready.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone. I hope you all are staying healthy and safe. Writing once again came together faster than I'd hoped, so I have an update sooner than I anticipated. We're in the "It's Complicated" stage of things, but once again I promise that things will eventually get better. 
> 
> Thanks once again to **serenityfails**, beta extraordinaire, for patiently reading and re-reading to keep me in line. My thanks also to **hurdlelocker** for keeping me motivated and excited, and giving me so much encouragement. 
> 
> Warnings for this chapter: Some minor description of blood/corpses. Skip from "He hands the walkie back" to "a little even so." Some brief implied destruction of a deathclaw.

Desdemona is smiling.

That’s the first thing Deacon sees. She watches him walk down the brick stairs without wincing and she smiles at him, slow and whole. The ashtray on the edge of the table sits empty. And might be the only thing in the room sitting still. 

“He did it. I don’t know how, but he did it,” Desdemona says when Deacon comes to a stop on the other side of the table. He has to weave between a couple other agents as they run by, and Drummer Boy ducking around the other direction.

“So he’s okay,” Deacon says, more than a little relieved.

Desdemona leans out of the way as Carrington marches by. “A few scrapes and bruises, nothing urgent. His suit held up. It took him three days to find the guy, but he did it.” The smile breaks across her lips again. “Deacon, this is huge.”

“So what happened? What did the guy say? Where even is Bullseye?” Deacon turns, craning his neck to look around the room. 

“He went ahead to Sanctuary,” Desdemona says. “The man he found. The scientist. Dr. Virgil? Told him how it all works. They use something they call a ‘molecular relay.’ The Coursers teleport through it. So Bullseye has to find one of them, and kill him. Then he can—”

“I’m sorry, rewind, he has to hunt down a fucking Courser?” Deacon looks at her over the rim of his sunglasses.

“Virgil says they have a chip that will allow us to lock into the relay signal. It’s the only way to do it,” Desdemona says. She seems to sober a little. 

“There has to be a way to hack into it, right?” Deacon knows as he says it that it’s bullshit. Even if they could find a way some time in the next decade, there’s no telling if the Institute has a way to know they’re doing it, or to guard against a counterfeit. And that’s assuming they have even a scrap of access to the kind of technology needed to pull it off.

“You know there isn’t,” Desdemona says, as though reading his thoughts. “How long have we been looking? So that’s… why I called you in.”

Deacon frowns. He feels someone brush against his shoulder trying to elbow around him as he stares at Desdemona. “You want me to help him kill a Courser.”

She sighs. “You know I’m not asking lightly. I can’t spare Glory right now. The others are too green. And you know better than any of us what he’s up against. You’re—frankly, you’re his best chance of surviving this.” 

Deacon isn’t sure how to feel about that. Flattering as the vote of confidence is, Deacon’s survived his encounters with Coursers by running from them, or hiding from them, or playing dead. Still, he can follow the logic. He has a runner’s instincts and an agent’s knowledge, and yeah, he can’t really pretend he doesn’t have a wealth of experience. He’s not really looking to add to it, though. He looks down at his hands, resting against the uneven brick of the table. He knows the answer before he even says it. Like it was ever really a question. One way or another, he’s not letting Anthony do this alone.

“So, what do we do with the chip once we have it?” Deacon says. Desdemona’s shoulders slowly relax, lips twitching up a little in the smallest imprint of a smile. She doesn’t thank him. She doesn’t have to.

“We let Tinker Tom loose on it. Or Bullseye might have to get more information from Virgil. If he knows more, he didn’t share.”

Deacon nods slowly. Desdemona bends her head a little to catch his eye and adds, “I know it’s a long shot. But it’s also the best—and only—shot we have at finally fighting back.” 

“What do we ever have but long shots?” Deacon says, the corner of his mouth quirking up.

They’re quiet for a moment. Deacon hears the fast clicking of the typewriter a few feet away, hears Tom mumbling to himself behind him. In the other room, he can hear P. A. M.’s toneless voice reciting something. 

“I didn’t ask how you’re doing,” Desdemona says. 

Deacon looks up. “I’m fine. No pain, mostly. Mercer’s coming together.” 

Desdemona opens her mouth, a little crease forming between her brows, and Deacon’s sure she’s going to ask something else. But then she blinks and the crease disappears. “Enough to start using it?”

“The basement’s going to take awhile, and the walls still need repair. They shifted work to the church to remodel it into a barracks, but some of the rooms in the house are finished, if things get desperate,” Deacon says.

“Well, that’s something.” She glances back at the chalkboard behind them, the list of houses. She sighs. “Anyway, Bullseye’s expecting you in the next day or so. You should probably head to Diamond City tonight.” 

Deacon nods again. He pushes back from the table. “I’ll send word when I can, then.” 

He starts back toward the stairs. Before he gets far, Desdemona calls his name. He looks back over his shoulder.

“Be careful.”

Deacon gives her a tight smile and salutes. “Always am.”

\----

The last blue slivers of evening stripe the sky above the trees when Deacon comes to a stop at the bridge outside Sanctuary. The peaks of the old rooftops crest the edge of the guard wall, and the warm light from the windows below makes the tree branches all around it glow. If he squints, he can see the shapes of a couple new buildings up the hill, beyond Anthony’s house. And far above the forest, floodlights illuminate another wall, a new wall, where Deacon knows the old Vault sits. The guard tower at Red Rocket stood finished, too, when he passed by. Moretti had recognized him as he trudged up the road from Concord, and saluted him from his perch. It’s changed. Grown, in these last few weeks. But it’s so familiar. He’s familiar. He has to pause at the edge of the bridge and lean a hand on the railing to steady himself.

When he finally crosses over the creek, Torres nods to him and motions him through the gate. He passes the general store, and the clinic, and nearly stops when his feet carry him past the door to the bar. He’d love nothing better than to collapse on a bar stool right about now. But he walks on up the street, past one house and the next, nodding when a few of the farmhands he recognizes call hello. He walks until he’s across the street from MacCready’s house. The lights are on, spilling out onto the sidewalk from the main room. Deacon pauses there, too.

But it’s Anthony’s door he knocks on. Garvey answers, pulling it open with a tired smile. 

“Almost didn’t recognize you without the hat,” Deacon says. 

Garvey laughs weakly, like it’s more a release of air than anything else. He’s not wearing the coat either, or the boots. He sags a little against the door as he sweeps a hand toward the dining room behind him. “Glad you made it.” 

There’s a map spread across the dining table, spilling over the sides, along with a few scattered papers. Anthony’s bent over it, with Hancock peeking over his shoulder. Anthony looks up as Garvey closes the door, and he smiles. He circles the table and pulls Deacon into a short, tight hug. It’s over before Deacon can do much more than lift his hand and pat Anthony’s shoulder.

“Heard you found a needle in a radioactive haystack,” Deacon says, fumbling a little for his footing in the conversation as Anthony pulls away. 

“That’s one way to put it,” Anthony says. His smile fades a little. “I’d figured it was going to be bad, you know? I saw the blast when it hit. I wasn’t expecting it to be pretty. But… Jesus.” He laughs quietly, shaking his head. “It’s probably a miracle we found him at all.”

“And you don’t even have a nice tan to show for it,” Deacon says. He lets the strap of his pack slide off his shoulder. He sets it against one of the dining chairs. This close, he can see a few scrawled notes and circles penciled onto the map, too rushed and small to discern upside down.

“Thank god. It was touch and go when we ran into that deathclaw,” Anthony says. 

“The excuse me _what now_?” Deacon glances from Anthony to Hancock to Garvey, now leaning against the wall behind them, and back again.

“What a fucking rush,” Hancock says, breaking into a grin. “It was massive. And Anthony was just slamming around in that armor with a damn Gauss rifle like something out of a comic book.” He lifts his arms and crooks them, imitating the weight of the gun. “And right when it tried to wrestle him to the ground, he shoved that gun up into its stomach and lit it up like a bonfire. Blew it straight to kingdom come.” Hancock laughs again, dropping his hands. “Coolest thing I’ve ever seen in my life.”

Anthony reaches over the rim of his eyeglasses to rub at the spot between his eyebrows, scrunching his nose up. “Are you going to tell this story to everyone we run into?”

“Damn straight.”

Anthony sighs. “Glad one of us was having fun.”

“Hey, I got in a few good hits for you,” Hancock says. 

“While I was pissing myself and trying not to die.” 

Out of the corner of his eye, Deacon sees Garvey’s shoulders tense a little. Deacon keeps his head turned toward Hancock, but watches as Garvey frowns down at his own slippered feet. He stays quiet.

Hancock just laughs again. “Aw, come on, give me a little credit, I wouldn’t have let that happen.” 

“Man, I miss all the fun missions,” Deacon says, turning his gaze back on Anthony. “If only I, too, could have been covered in severed lizard parts.” 

Anthony chuckles and nudges Deacon’s arm with his elbow. “At least it was worth it, in the end.” 

“Which brings me to my next question: does this party—” Deacon gestures to encompass all of them, “—have a theme?” 

“The plan is to take the fight to the Institute,” Hancock says. “Fucking finally.” 

Deacon blinks, eyebrows rising, and turns to Anthony. A silent question. Sure, Deacon’s caught a few of Hancock’s rousing speeches when he couldn’t avoid them, and almost all of them flipped the proverbial bird at the Institute. But that’s just an easy way to get people to unite: remind them they all hate the same boogie man. Rhetoric is one thing. Actually picking up a gun and putting a bullet between the boogie man’s eyes is another.

“It’s all right. I got the green light to take a couple tourists on this one,” Anthony says to Deacon’s skeptical eyebrows. 

“No way I’m sitting on the sidelines now,” Hancock says. “Not when there’s a real shot on the line here.” The corner of his mouth curls up. “I wasn’t exactly out of the loop to begin with anyway. Why do you think no one ever bothers Amari?” 

The way Hancock’s looking at him, Deacon’s almost positive he can hear an unspoken, _Or you_. So he just slowly nods. Fair enough. “Well, how could I say no?” 

There’s a voice in the back of Deacon’s head that sounds a hell of a lot like Carrington, and it grumbles something about crowd control that he tries to ignore. But—and it would take a special brand of hot poker tickle torture for Deacon to admit it out loud—Carrington may have had a point when he barked something like that at MacCready. They were already letting the Minutemen in a little close for comfort. Then Deacon had dragged MacCready into things. And now the mayor of fucking Goodneighbor? Then again, maybe trying to hunt down a Courser was going to make all of that a moot point anyway. What’s a few deadly secret missions among friends?

“I don’t want to leave anything to chance, so I’m taking a team,” Anthony says. “That’s part of why I asked for you. I know you’ve got experience.”

Deacon lets out a sharp breath through his nose. “That’s… a word for it.”

“Well, you’re the only one that knows what we’re up against firsthand. I asked Nick back to help with the tracking, too,” Anthony says.

“So you and me, Nick, and Hancock?” Deacon says. “Solid.” 

“And MacCready,” Hancock says. “We’d be idiots not to take the best shot in the Commonwealth with us.” 

That stops Deacon short. Anthony’s already watching him, eyes flicking over Deacon’s face. Deacon keeps every muscle of it still. He keeps tight control over his voice as he says, “You gonna let him shunt you into second place like that, Bullseye?” 

Anthony’s still looking at him in a way that makes Deacon want to march straight back out the door, but then he turns to Hancock instead, smirking as he says, “And after I killed a deathclaw for you.” 

“Anthony.” Garvey straightens and moves to stand at Anthony’s side. “I still think you should let me—”

“Preston... we’ve been over this. It’s too risky to have both of us out on something like this,” Anthony says. “Not with Quincy still fresh on everyone’s minds. Including the Gunners.”

Garvey frowns again, turning it on the map this time. He’s biting back an argument. Deacon can see it in the way his jaw tightens. But he just gives a short nod, and falls quiet again.

Deacon watches him a moment longer, then clears his throat. “So did this Virgil guy give you directions or are we just stumbling in the dark until we trip over a Courser and hope we knock it down first?” 

“He told me to start at the old C. I. T. ruins,” Anthony says. He hunches himself forward over the map and points to a black dot circled several times in pencil. 

Deacon squints down at the dot. “We’ve checked there before. We’ve checked there over and over.” 

“He told me the PipBoys can tune into the signal from there, and all we have to do is follow it until it gets strong,” Anthony says, glancing up. 

Shit, had it been that simple the whole time? If any one of them had just happened to take a portable radio with them and twisted it to the right frequency, would they have known it was a clue? Would any of them have thought it was the Institute, or would they have just chalked it up to some Old World signal still broadcasting weakly through dead air? There were so many of those, coming from old radio towers and distress pulsers no one had ever answered. Even if they suspected the Institute was behind it, they sure as shit wouldn’t have thought, “Ah, of course, this weird noise must mean they’ve discovered teleportation.” Every time Deacon thinks maybe, _maybe_ they have a shot in all of this, something happens to remind him they’re banging on a titanium door with toothpicks. 

“So when do we leave?” he says, trying to clear his head. 

“Tomorrow, if you’re up for it,” Anthony says. “I know it was a long day. Nick only just got in this afternoon. But I want to get on this as soon as possible. If we leave in the morning, we’ll reach Cambridge by early afternoon.”

Deacon nods. “Yeah, give me a few hours of beauty rest, I’ll be good to go.”

“You sure? I don’t want to push you when you’ve just healed up—”

“I’m fine, Bullseye,” Deacon says, flicking up a few fingers to stop him. “I’ll be a lot better when I can get my hands back on a gun. Just give me somewhere to crash. Bunkhouse? Couch? I’ll take the floor if I have to.” 

Anthony and Garvey share a look, a look that Deacon immediately hates on principle, because he knows it Means Something. Anthony purses his lips, and then jerks his head toward the front door. Deacon stretches down to grab his pack and then follows, giving a half-hearted wag of his fingers to the others. 

They step onto the front stoop. The evenings have grown cooler since August melted into September, and Deacon can feel a breeze tugging at the collar of his shirt. He reaches up to smooth it down.

“The bunkhouse is still full. But you do have a room here.” Anthony glances at Deacon, then pointedly down the street, where Deacon can see the corner of MacCready’s house lit by the streetlight on the sidewalk. 

“Bullseye—”

“He knows you’re coming,” Anthony says. The wind ruffles his hair a little, tossing a few short black strands across his forehead. 

“Bullseye, I can’t.” 

“Look, just talk to him? Please? If things go south you can come sleep on the floor in our living room. I’d offer the couch, but that’s where Hancock’s sleeping.” Anthony slides his hands into his pockets. His eyes keep darting over Deacon’s face the way they had earlier, in a searching sort of look that makes Deacon want to flinch away. 

“Why didn’t Hancock take the room?” Deacon gestures down the street with a twitch of his shoulder.

“Because it’s your room, if you still want it.”

“It’s MacCready’s house, Bullseye. I don’t have any claim to—”

“Those were his words, not mine.” 

Oh.

Something sharp twists through Deacon’s chest, an ache too fierce to swallow down. Beneath the sunglasses, he closes his eyes. 

“Just talk to him,” Anthony says again. He pulls one hand out of his pocket and rests it above Deacon’s elbow, squeezing briefly. Then he turns, and walks back into the house behind them. Deacon stands on the sidewalk, listening to the door close, staring down the street.

\----

A few hours later, he’s perched on the furthest corner stool in the Wet Whistle, cradling his second glass of whiskey against his palm. His backpack sits at his feet, one strap hooked around his ankle. The Nuka Cola clock tacked to the wall behind the bar reads two minutes to midnight. He hunches forward, pressing his elbows to the counter, and takes another sip of his drink. Only three other people sit scattered across the room: two at the other end of the bar, and one nodding off in the last booth against the wall. Too few for the white noise of conversation to drown out Ella Fitzgerald as she croons from the jukebox behind him. 

_Into each life some rain must fall, but too much is falling in mine…_

Deacon pushes his fingers under his shades to rub at the bridge of his nose. As if he didn’t have enough bad poetry writing itself in his head without cheeky piano keys fluttering along in time with the meter. 

He doesn’t know if he can do this. 

All right, calm down. It’s one night. In less than eight hours, he’ll be marching to Cambridge to do something truly, outrageously stupid. In the long lineup of idiotic decisions Deacon has made in his life, this is probably going to break into the top ten. Somewhere north of “try to sneak into a super mutant nest to find a two hundred year old Vault Dweller’s military records” but still south of “stop in the open in the middle of a safehouse run to smile at the guy you shouldn’t be falling for, and then get shot in the chest about it.” 

_Just talk to him_, says Anthony. Like it’s that simple. _Take your own fucking advice_, some nasty part of Deacon wants to growl back. He thinks of Garvey’s tense frown. And then he thinks of MacCready’s. He takes another long drink. 

No, the best thing to do, he’d decided, was to sit here, have a drink (or two), and wait until the house went dark. Deacon would slip inside, lock himself in his room (_his_ room, Jesus) and MacCready would have the option to talk to him or avoid him in the morning. Everybody wins. 

Kinda.

He flicks his eyes up to the clock again. Just after midnight, now. He knocks back the last of the whiskey, letting it burn down his throat. He fishes out his caps and lays them next to the glass.

The house is indeed dark when he arrives, and he lets out a long breath as he climbs up the front step. He pulls a key out of the pocket of his jeans. (He’d found it there after he reached Nahant. He’d completely forgotten to leave it behind. He’d meant to give it to Anthony, but it just… slipped his mind.) He slides it into the lock, and quietly turns it.

The door creaks a little as it opens. Wincing, he stops it halfway, tiptoeing through the slim gap. He tries to close it as quietly as he can behind him. Then he stops, sliding his sunglasses up to look into the darkness ahead of him. Yeah, it was better to do this in the dark. Now he can’t see if the basil and thyme leaves he left behind are still hanging next to the cabinet. He can’t see if anything’s changed. He’ll just feel his way down the hall and try to sleep and maybe in the morning he’ll have found some scrap of something to say if—

A loud scratching noise rips through the silence, and Deacon sees a flash of light out of the corner of his eye. He stumbles backward, startled, his head whipping around.

Wreathed in the glow of a single match flame, he sees MacCready sitting in an armchair across from the couch. A fresh cigarette waits between his lips. He holds the match to it, letting it light, and then his eyes fix on Deacon. It’s only seconds before he finally snuffs the flame, but they stretch like hours while MacCready holds his gaze, his eyes burning with more than just the match’s reflection. And then it’s gone, and the room sinks back into shadow as MacCready shakes the flame out. 

Shadow, but not complete darkness. The smoke twists up through the bluish glow from the streetlight outside. The light is catching on MacCready’s boots where they’re propped against the coffee table, and on his belt buckle, and spilling halfway across his chest. If Deacon had just glanced to his right as he walked in, he would’ve seen him. But he didn’t. Like an idiot.

“Is this how you’re going to do this?” MacCready says, plucking the cigarette from his mouth. “Sneak in and avoid me? A month wasn’t enough for you? I’m surprised you didn’t use a stealth boy. I thought you’d at least care enough to say hello.” 

Deacon shuts his eyes. The bitterness in MacCready’s voice hits him like a slap in the face. He probably deserves one. “I didn’t think you’d want me to.”

“You didn’t bother to ask,” MacCready says. He takes a long drag, his fingers flashing in and out of the light.

Deacon stares down at the back of the couch. “I thought I was doing you a favor.”

MacCready shifts, pulling his feet down to plant them on the floor. The streetlight cuts over his cheek, and the side of his nose, as he leans over his lap. “Do me this favor instead: stop deciding for me.” 

Deacon looks back up. He can’t see MacCready’s eyes, but he can feel them. He swallows. “I’m… I’m sorry. You’re right, I shouldn’t have—” 

“Why are you even here if you don’t want to see me?” MacCready asks.

Deacon thinks of the flimsy excuse he’d tried to piece together in the bar. Then he thinks of the truth, and he can’t get that to sit right on his tongue, either. _I do want to see you. I don’t want to be anywhere else. But I didn’t think you’d want to see me_. Yeah, Deacon, he’d refused Hancock his open guest room because he didn’t want to see you. And anyway, you tried that one. 

The real truth, then. _Because looking at you hurts, but this is the only place I know that feels like home._

MacCready takes another drag, sitting silent for the space it takes Deacon to chase his thoughts around in circles and come up empty-handed. MacCready seems to see through him anyway. Like he always does. He says, “You’re a lot of things, but I never took you for such a coward.”

_That’s all I’ve ever been._ “You did. When we first met.”

“When I was looking for reasons to hate you.” MacCready turns his head away, toward the window. 

Deacon’s mouth is so dry. “You have every reason to hate me.”

MacCready looks at him again, his face slipping back into the long shadows from the window. After a moment, he whispers, “It was easier when I did.”

The back of Deacon’s throat burns. He grits his teeth, biting down on the hurt, trapping it back where it won’t bleed into his voice. “Listen, I can just go—”

“Haven’t you done enough of that?” 

Deacon slowly closes his mouth. Right. The only thing he hasn’t tried: staying here and facing things. He fights down the urge to turn to the door anyway, to go trudge back to Anthony’s house, or the bar, or go sleep in the damn field and hope the earth just swallows him.

“Just go to bed, Deacon. It’s late.”

MacCready stands, and the darkness shrouds him as he shifts away, leaving smoke spreading out behind him. He passes the couch, passes Deacon, and moves down the hall without another word. After a minute, Deacon hears his bedroom door click shut. Deacon fumbles blindly for the couch, burying his fingers in the cushions and squeezing them until he stops wanting to scream.

\----

Deacon wakes to light spilling into the bedroom. For a moment he thinks he’s still in Nahant, but the window’s on the wrong side, and the bed is sitting on a frame. He feels his knuckles resting against the headboard, his arm stretched away from his body like he’s reaching for the window. The sky is clouded, sunless, but still bright. Someone in a green jacket passes in and out of view. The familiarity has a word. He’s not using it again.

He turns onto his back, the way he had the day he left this place. The room is the same now as it was then. He hadn’t bothered unpacking last night, just dropped his pack at the foot of the bed, pulled off his clothes, and sank under the covers. The blanket smells clean, but that’s the only sign the room’s been touched at all. The shelves still stand bare. The desk chair is still half-turned toward the door, as though waiting to catch him. He sighs, sits up, and crawls to the edge of the bed to grab his pack by the shoulder strap and tug it up next to him.

He dresses to walk, this time. To blend into the scenery, rather than the crowd. So: khakis, and boots with thick soles that lace up over his ankles, and a long-sleeved, faded brown shirt. As he’s pulling that out, it snags on the catch of something else. He tugs, and out with the shirt comes the kevlar vest he wore the night of the Dayton run. He stares at it for a moment, still dented and a little torn where the bullet had lodged. He runs his fingers over the spot. Then he thinks, _Fuck it, it’s a god damn Courser_, and puts it on over the shirt.

He looks at the rest of the clothes he’d piled on the bed as he went. Then he glances at the dresser behind him, and hesitates. He’s not staying. There’s no reason to. If—_When_ they make it back from all of this, he’ll just be heading back to HQ. Where he belongs. But it’ll slow him down to cart all of his stuff with him to Cambridge. He’ll just… just leave it here for now. Just until they come back. 

He stacks the shirts and re-folds the pants and lays them all in the drawers. At the bottom of his pack, he’s greeted again by that small bag of things he never sold. He closes his eyes for a moment. Then he reaches in and pulls that out too, shoving it underneath the shirts in the top drawer and shutting it away. 

He carries his pack down the hall and leaves it by the front door. Then he goes to the kitchen, crouching down to check the stove. To his surprise, fresh wood waits. He pulls open a few drawers and finds a book of matches in the third one. While he waits for the stove to heat, he pulls a saucepan out of the cupboard, and then starts to move toward the built-in shelves on the other side of the fridge to look for the water cans usually stacked somewhere among the box dinners. As he passes the fridge he pauses, though. He hadn’t noticed before, but there’s a piece of paper stuck to the front by a cherry-shaped magnet. The fridge itself is dead, just used for extra storage, and Deacon’s never seen MacCready keep anything but food there. Before he can stop himself, he tugs the paper free.

It’s a letter, written in neat script that slants a little down the right side of the page. It’s addressed to RJ. And the very first sentence reads: _I think it’s working._

Deacon doesn’t really mean to read it, but that first sentence sinks into him like a hook. His heart starts to pound. He has to know. He has to know that it means the medicine. He has to know that it means Duncan.

_The boils are almost completely gone. There’s color in his cheeks again. He asked for mac and cheese, when we’ve had to practically force him to eat anything at all for weeks. He even asked Penny if he could go outside. RJ, I don’t know how you did it, or what it even is. But I really think it’s working. I waited to write to you in case I was wrong, but it’s been two weeks since it arrived, and he’s only gotten stronger. I think he’s going to be okay._

It’s signed “Joseph.” Deacon feels his eyes start to sting. He shoves his sunglasses up and digs a knuckle into the corner of his eye. He reads the letter twice. 

He’s nearly finished the second reading when MacCready stumbles down the hall, heavy-lidded and yawning, carrying his backpack in one hand and his hat in the other. Deacon looks up, and MacCready stops when he sees him. He looks at the letter in Deacon’s hand, then back up. Deacon knows his eyes are wet. Nothing to do about it now. 

As MacCready holds his gaze, the corners of his mouth slowly, softly curl up, just the slightest bit. He nods. Deacon wants to hug him so badly his fingers twitch against the paper. He slowly smiles back.

MacCready’s eyes fall away, settling somewhere around Deacon’s stomach, and then his brow bends. He looks confused. Then angry. Deacon looks down, pulling the letter out of the way, and realizes MacCready is staring at the dent on his vest.

“Why are you still wearing that?” he says, sharper than Deacon expected.

“If we’re hunting a Courser, I figured—”

“And if you get shot in the same place?” MacCready cuts him off, expression growing as sharp as his voice.

Deacon frowns. “I mean, the odds of that happening—”

“Oh my god, you are such a fu—such an idiot,” MacCready mutters. He drops his pack, turns around, and marches back down the hall. Deacon watches, bewildered. He hears some rustling sounds from what he presumes is MacCready’s room. Deacon sighs, and slides the letter back under the magnet on the fridge, and then retrieves a can of water from the shelf. He pops the tab, and pours it into the saucepan. He drops the lid on it just as MacCready’s footsteps come thumping back toward the kitchen. He stalks past the fridge and thrusts something at Deacon. Deacon slowly grabs it and holds it up. It’s another vest, different material, but strong, and unbroken. He looks at MacCready in surprise. 

“Can’t believe you were going to walk into this with broken armor,” MacCready says as he turns away to pull a box of Sugar Bombs off the shelf next to him. “Like we don’t have enough to worry about.”

“The entire rest of it is intact, and it’s not exactly like we’ve got a stockpile at HQ,” Deacon says. He lays the new vest on the counter and starts pulling at the velcro straps of the old one to loosen it. 

“Yeah, too bad you’re not friends with the General of the Minutemen.” MacCready emphasizes each part of the title like Deacon’s forgotten it. He eyes Deacon over his shoulder as he rounds the counter and moves toward the cupboard on the other side of the stove. 

Deacon pulls the old vest off. “Anthony’s got enough people mooching off of him.” 

MacCready slams the cupboard door shut and glares at him. “Are you fu—freaking kidding me? You’re the only one of us that’s ever seen one of these things. Armoring up isn’t mooching, it’s having a brain and using it. Besides that, if you go down, the nearest doctor’s in Starlight, and we lose the whole day.”

Deacon holds his hands up as he finishes shouldering on the new vest. “All right, all right. Jesus. Message received.”

“Just think of someone other than yourself for five minutes,” MacCready grumbles. He carries the cereal box and the bowl he’d grabbed over to the dining table. 

Deacon feels like he’s taken a wrong step, like he’s tried to move forward only for his foot to jackknife beneath him. He turns away. He fumbles the vest closed, and then pulls the instant coffee off the shelf and sets it on the counter. The back of his neck burns. He listens to the cereal clink in the bowl behind him, and watches a bubble pop the surface of the water on the stove, and tries to untangle the confused knot of guilt and gratitude sitting under his breast bone. 

They don’t speak again. When the water boils, he stirs instant coffee into two mugs, and leaves one on the counter. Then he retreats to the couch across the room, and tries not to burn his tongue on his. It tastes so bitter.

\----

It doesn’t get better, even after they’ve walked for hours. He keeps feeling wrong-footed, keeps feeling like he’s walking on gravel and the stones are slipping under his heel, or like he’s trying to stand straight when everything’s just slightly tilted. The thread of the conversation keeps moving in and out of reach as he brings up the rear behind the rest of them, glancing compulsively over his shoulder every few steps. He’s not sure if it’s being back among them all, being back in the field after so long alone, or if it’s MacCready’s words from last night still scratching at the back of his head. Or if it’s what they’re walking toward. Or if it’s the fact that he’s walking toward it with MacCready. 

He feels a sharp jab of anxiety under his collarbone, so sudden he nearly trips over a wide crack in the pavement. All right, well, solved that mystery. Nick looks back at him over his shoulder, and Deacon quickly waves him off. 

Maybe it shouldn’t have been that much of a mystery. This was Item One on the list of Things Deacon Was Absolutely Trying to Prevent: getting MacCready anywhere near a Courser. Though yeah, maybe this wasn’t Deacon’s fault, exactly. Anthony was the one marching them all down the riverside in broad fucking daylight with Hancock in a bright red coat and Nick’s eyes glowing in the cloudy gloom and MacCready wearing the same fucking hat and coat he always wears. This might be over before it starts. All the Courser has to do is look a little to the left and listen for Hancock’s wheezing cackle. At least Anthony hadn’t turned on the radio this time.

MacCready’s choosing to do this, Deacon tries to remind himself. _Stop deciding for me._ He’s taken out teams of raiders on his own, he’s taken down the Gunners over and over. He practically carried Deacon across the city. He’s strong, frighteningly capable, and going to be fine. They’re all going to be fine. He repeats it in his head like a chant. It doesn’t get that ache in his chest to ease. 

“So clue me in, what exactly are we looking for here? I mean, besides Terrifying Institute Killing Machine.” Hancock turns around, walking backwards, his voice cutting into Deacon’s thoughts. They’re on the edge of Cambridge proper now; Deacon can see the buildings starting to crowd together through the trees ahead of them. They’re keeping to the river to skirt the square, where ferals tend to swarm. 

“They gonna look like Tall, Grey, and Handsome over here?” Hancock continues, nudging Nick with his elbow. Nick has his back to Deacon, but he must pull some kind of face, because Hancock breaks into another laugh, too loud. Ahead of him, over his shoulder, Deacon can see MacCready tense a little, turning his head. 

“Physically, they look like any other human,” Deacon says. “Any gender, any race. The only thing they have in common is they all wear these long black leather coats, high neck, long sleeves. I don’t know if it’s some kind of uniform.” 

“Little cliche, isn’t it?” Hancock says.

“You’ve seen a lot of them?” Nick glances back at him. 

Deacon looks away, down to the dirty surface of the river. He watches the waves break through the reflection of the clouds, slicing them into strange pieces. “Too many.”

There must be something in his voice, quiet as he says it, because out of the corner of his eye he sees Anthony and MacCready both turn to look at him. He keeps his eyes on the water. 

“What’s the best way to take them down?”

It’s MacCready this time, the first thing he’s said to Deacon since the morning. Deacon smothers a laugh, knowing how wild and bitter it’ll sound if he lets it escape. He huffs out a sharp breath through his nose instead.

“I don’t know. I’m usually too busy running from them,” Deacon says. He does turn his head back this time. MacCready’s watching him with a frown. So is Nick. Even Hancock seems to sober a little. Deacon sighs. “I mean, as far as any of us know, they’re like any other synth. They’re human in every way that matters, including vital organs. If shooting them in one doesn’t stop them, it’s still going to do some damage.”

“But you don’t know for sure.” Anthony turns his head a little to be heard. 

“I don’t know if they’re made any differently, no. I’ve seen people get shots in. I do know they bleed,” Deacon says. “The problem is they’re fucking fast. And they like to use stealth. I don’t know if it’s innate, or if they equip them with stealth boys. But they almost always use invisibility to make themselves harder to hit, and harder to avoid.” 

“Oh, this’ll be a cinch,” Hancock says. 

They cut up a hill outside the Fraternal Post Deacon has fond memories of fleeing, crouching low. Deacon sees two super mutants standing near the side door, rusty metal bent into armor around their shoulders and arms. The five of them cut into the street around the shell of an old car, and hug the sidewalk toward the boarded-up building across the street to give the Post a wide berth. The super mutants don’t show any sign of having spotted them, but Deacon keeps cutting a glance over his shoulder to be sure. 

The old C. I. T. building rises a dirty white out of all the brown brick around it. They follow the sidewalk around the side, and Deacon eyes the dust-caked windows uneasily. There’s always been something eerie about it. He doesn’t make a habit of coming here, and thankfully there’s rarely a reason to, but he’s stood on the campus before. It’s unsettlingly quiet. He’s heard the super mutants sometimes wander close, maybe poke inside the old doors, but there’s nothing at all here now. Nothing but debris cutting through some of the ornate architecture, splitting it open to the sky on one side. Crashed trucks and pieces of the wall litter the front courtyard. Everything is still. 

The five of them come to stand on the edge of the sidewalk in front of it. Deacon glances around them again, feeling too exposed, and he catches sight of MacCready doing the same. The river laps calmly below railing across from them, but nothing else moves in the street. 

“Here goes nothing,” Anthony mumbles, and lifts his wrist. He twists the dial on the PipBoy. MacCready leans over to watch, his fingers poised over his own wrist. Voices cut in and out between the static as Anthony winds through the frequencies, then stops. A weak, slow beeping noise sounds from the speaker, and then repeats, and repeats. He glances up at the others. MacCready quickly twists his own dial, and then the beeping from his pulses in time with Anthony’s.

“Should we split up?” Anthony says. “Try both sides?” 

“That… might be more dangerous.” Deacon squints at the sides of the building. 

“It’s all going to be dangerous,” Hancock says. 

Anthony’s mouth presses into a thin line as he seems to think for a moment. “All right. MacCready and Nick take that side, Hancock and Deacon come with me. Stay low, and stay quiet. If you find it, do not engage. Just call me.” Anthony pulls at the walkie clipped to his belt and holds it up. MacCready pulls its twin from his pocket and nods. Deacon has to curl his hands in his own pockets to quell the absurd, stupid urge to grab the arm of MacCready’s coat as he passes by. Instead, he watches him pick his way carefully onto the grass with Nick at his back, winding off to the right around a half-crushed old truck jutting out from the wall. 

“We’ll take the other side,” Anthony says, starting down the sidewalk. Deacon pulls Deliverer out of his waistband, and, with one last look behind him, follows.

\----

The pulsing picks up when they reach the intersection behind the dome building, just in time for Deacon to catch sight of a couple raiders loitering in a blown-out bank building. Hancock sees them too, and yanks Anthony back from the street corner with a hard tug, nearly toppling him backward into Deacon. 

“What the—” Anthony starts, but Hancock shushes him and points. Deacon presses back against the wall next to them. 

Anthony fumbles at a dial on his PipBoy, and the beeping slowly quiets. Then he grips his combat rifle and carefully peers around the edge of the brick again. 

“I count two,” he whispers. He slides back and looks at Hancock, then Deacon. “Be ready for more.” 

In the next moment, his shot echoes loud off the buildings corralled around them. Deacon winces, tightening his grip on his pistol. He hears a shout, and watches Anthony take another slow, deep breath, and then fire again. The shouting stops, and there’s a distant, heavy thud. 

Deacon just about jumps out of his skin when the walkie suddenly flares to life. MacCready’s voice blares out from where it’s clipped to Anthony’s waist again.

“You guys okay?” 

Anthony fumbles for it, covering the speaker with his hand, though not in time to muffle MacCready’s voice. Hancock reaches over and bats his fingers away, then pulls it free of Anthony’s belt. “We’re fine, hang on.” 

They wait. No other footsteps come. Deacon sees Anthony crane his head around, then lift his scope again. After a moment, he drops it and turns back to give a thumbs up.

“All clear,” Hancock says into the walkie. “Just a couple of raiders.”

“Got it,” comes MacCready’s voice again. “We’re trying down the block but the signal’s getting weaker. I think we’re gonna circle back.” 

Hancock glances at Anthony, who nods. He presses the button. “Sounds good. We’re pressing on.” 

He hands the walkie back to Anthony and then straightens. They round the corner, stepping lightly across the street and ducking into the building one of the raiders had been standing in. His body sprawls across a dingy, water-stained carpet, a few drops of blood splattering the dead elevators behind him. They keep low as they walk through, their footsteps squelching a little even so. 

They wait for a moment, looking carefully along the street. When nothing leaps over one of the old cars or comes barreling out of the alley across from them, Anthony motions for them to follow him out. He reaches down, cranking the volume back up. The pulsing is intense now, like a rapid heartbeat. 

Rising up ahead of them is some kind of oddly-shaped office building. The green paint, chipped and rust-eaten as it is, looks bright against the cloudy white sky. Deacon sweeps his eyes up and down the block around it as the pulsing grows louder and louder in his ears.

They round the side of the building, trying to keep their footing down a sudden, steep hill that makes the building rise even higher above them. There’s barely any space between the pulses now. They stop when they reach a staircase leading up to the main door. A sign plastered over the top in a neat, boring font proclaims it the home of “Greenetech Genetics.” By unspoken agreement, all three of them glance around the street, trying to see if any of the other buildings look as likely to hold their prize.

“If it’s an escaped synth the Courser’s after, they might be hiding in one of these,” Deacon whispers, pointing to a couple of the dark brick offices lining the sidewalk. And it’s as he says that it hits him that that’s… probably exactly why this Courser is out here, and there might be a synth on the line here too. Oh, _fuck_. 

“We could split up again,” Anthony starts to say. But before he even finishes, a loud crash comes from above them. All three of them swivel around to look up the stairs. Deacon hears the faint sounds of gunshots ricocheting off the walls inside. 

“Or not,” Anthony says. 

Movement on the street catches Deacon’s eye. He tenses and lifts Deliverer, but then drops his shoulders when he catches sight of MacCready’s hat, and then Nick’s coat. As they draw near, he hears the twin pulsing coming from MacCready’s PipBoy. 

MacCready straightens as he reaches them. “So what are we—”

There’s another crash, this time sounding closer to a muffled explosion. MacCready’s mouth slowly closes. 

Anthony nods to the door. “Gentlemen, I think we’ve found our mark.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What could possibly go wrong? 
> 
> 1) Maybe one of these days I'll write Anthony and Hancock's Excellent Glowing Sea Adventure. I have a lot of ideas for how that went, including Hancock having to interact with the Children of Atom. 
> 
> 2) "Into Each Life Some Rain Must Fall" by The Ink Spots and Ella Fitzgerald is a great ass song and you should listen to it.
> 
> 3) If you haven't played Fallout 3, Joseph and Penny are siblings from Little Lamplight, and I'm headcanoning that they're among MacCready's friends still remaining from those days, enough that he'd trust them with Duncan while he was gone.
> 
> I'm just going to stop predicting how fast these chapters are going to go up lol. Chapter 16 is done barring final tweaks, it'll go up once Chapter 17 is drafted. I'm particularly excited to write that chapter so maybe it'll go quickly? We'll see! Thanks for hanging in there.


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Deacon and the others fight their way through Greenetech Genetics, and MacCready sees what a Courser can actually do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey friends! Thank you so much for the positive feedback on the last chapter! I can't tell you how much it means that you are all are still hanging in there through this novel of a fic. We're probably over two-thirds of the way through. Maybe a little more. I still don't want to officially give it a chapter count because it just keeps ballooning out of my hands. Tentatively it maps out to about 21, maybe 22. Anyway, hope you're ready for Greenetech. My thanks of course to **serenityfails** for the beta work, especially helping me iron out some of the more significant dialogue.
> 
> Warnings: This chapter is probably the most violent so far. There is rampant description of blood and corpses throughout, in basically every scene. I'll leave a general summary in the end notes if it's going to be too much and you need to skip but still want to know what happens. <3 If you just need to skip the most graphic portions: there's a graphic knee injury of an enemy between "Deacon only has a single moment" and "Deacon sees Hancock round the wall." Also graphic description of an enemy getting shot in the head between "His fingers starts to squeeze" and "Not a single twitch of muscle." Additional warnings: brief PTSD flashback in the first scene, nausea mentioned repeatedly (but no vomiting), discussion of animals used in lab experiments (but no physical animal abuse or death), minor facial injury, canon-scripted implied torture (dialogue only, no description), and vague, implied (but not described) surgical procedures.

Glass crunches beneath Deacon’s feet as he steps into the Greentech building’s cramped entryway. Crumpled paper spills across the floor from a fallen trash can, the pile of it pinned beneath a few overturned chairs. A panel of the metal wall leans precariously toward the door, rusted through its rivets. 

“How… inviting,” Deacon says, poking at the edge of the wall. It creaks a warning, and he yanks his hand back. 

“I don’t know, chuck a painting up and sweep the floor, it’s got potential,” Hancock says. He nudged the trash can with his boot. 

“Trust you to see the appeal in—oh shit.” Deacon stops short as he steps into the lobby. 

It’s a wide, high-ceilinged room stretching open up to the next floor, where an artfully curved balcony overlooks the reception area. The only light that isn’t a dim desk lamp drifts down from windows on the second floor. The room is filled with what were once fancy leather couches and designer area rugs. And every inch of it all is covered in blood.

“Holy fu—crap.” MacCready pauses next to him, his eyes making the same circle Deacon’s had. Blood spatters the desk in front of them, and the couches and chairs scattered around beyond. It fans up a broken staircase splitting from the center of the balcony to stand straight against the floor. It soaks the patterns swirling across the rugs, and it drips from the railing overhead, from a man bent almost double over the edge of it, limp. He’s not the only one. Another lays across the reception desk with his arms spread wide. There’s one slumped against the collapsed stairway, and several tossed across the couches, or left on the floor. Each of them wears some variation of Gunner fatigues. Deacon knows the look of them well, by now.

He can’t seem to tear his eyes from it all, even as he stumbles a little to the right to get out of the doorway. The toe of his boot brushes something solid, and pliant. He looks down without thinking. Another Gunner sprawls at his feet, still weakly bleeding from two bullet holes torn through his green military jacket. And it’s then that the smell—that heavy, meaty smell—hits him, sinking into his nostrils like a hook and clinging. Deacon reaches blindly for the wall. His knuckles scrabble against the rivets on the corner, and then he presses the side of his hand to the metal, still holding Deliverer. The cold shocks his skin.

But still he stares. Distantly, he can hear the others talking, words that don’t reach his ears in the right shape. Somewhere else in the building there’s gunfire, and lasers, and shouting. But all Deacon sees is the blood. He blinks, and the walls turn to thick, red brick. The carpet dissolves into dirt. And the faces laying lifeless around him become familiar. His stomach lurches.

“Hey. Deacon. We’ve got to—Deacon?”

Deacon blinks again, and the scene rights itself. A lobby he doesn’t recognize—people he doesn’t know—in a building he’s never been in before. He turns his head to find Anthony standing at his side, rifle held in one hand, the other half-raised toward Deacon’s shoulder. He drops it. Another wave of nausea rolls through Deacon’s stomach.

“Sorry,” Deacon forces out. “Just can’t take the color scheme in here. I mean, who puts an orange couch with _that_ rug?”

It sounds weak, even to his own ears. Anthony gives him a pinched smile anyway. “Well, sooner we get moving, the sooner you don’t have to look at it.”

Deacon knows he doesn’t mean the couches. He nods a little, and presses a knuckle against his nostrils. He tries to make it look casual, like he’s scratching an itch and not desperate to smother the smell. 

“I’m right behind you,” he says, pushing himself off the wall to stand straighter. _Don’t look down_, he reminds himself. _Don’t look down. Don’t look down_. He forces his eyes up, settles them on the doorway at the other end of the room. He sees stairs peeking around the edge. He looks back to point it out to Anthony, but his eyes land on MacCready instead. Deacon’s surprised to find him looking back, frowning a little, his brow bent. Concerned. Deacon purses his lips, and gives him a slight nod. MacCready’s frown just deepens. He looks away. 

Just as Anthony starts to lead them toward the door, something crackles loudly above them. Deacon jerks his head up, and he sees a speaker attached to the ceiling. 

“Courser’s on the second floor. Kill on sight. Send reinforcements to the lobby in case there are more.” 

“Shit,” Anthony says. “Come on.” 

Deacon checks Deliverer’s clip as he follows the group up the stairs. He feels his arms beginning to tense with adrenaline, and he lets that take his focus. _Don’t look down. Don’t think about anything else. Move. Just keep moving and don’t look down_.

The sound of gunfire grows louder as they emerge onto the balcony. Several overturned tables loll on their sides across it, and fallen chairs litter the carpet. Deacon avoids looking at the body bent over the railing, and another one bleeding in the corner. Instead he looks at the windows, and the open doorway to one side. From the glimpse he catches, it looks almost like it opens onto some kind of courtyard, though he can’t tell if it’s enclosed or actually open to the sky. Anthony cuts across his view, running quickly by the doorway to press his shoulder against the wall next to it. Nick moves to the other side. Deacon takes the hint and ducks behind one of the tables, while Hancock crouches across from him. MacCready slides down behind another table, right next to them. They wait. 

After a few moments of stillness, Deacon peeks out around the side and studies the doorway again. Or what little he can see through it. There’s a matching doorway across the courtyard, connected by a walkway. A shadow crosses it to one side, which means another balcony, or some kind of bridge, that’ll be above them when they step onto it. Trouble, there. And then on the wall there’s—fuck. A shining silver laser turret, trained right on the table he’s using for cover.

“We’ve got security,” he hisses to Anthony. 

“I see it,” Anthony whispers back. He chews on the inside of his cheek for a moment in thought. “All right. Nick, I’m leaving that to you and Hancock. Take out every one you see as we go. MacCready, keep your distance, pick off whoever you can before they reach us. Deacon and I will get the rest.” 

“Got it, boss,” MacCready says, as Deacon and Hancock nod. Nick’s already aiming for the turret. It locks on, the light training on the wall Nick’s leaning out from, and starts spitting lasers. It takes three hits to drop, smoking, to the floor. Just enough time for Gunners to start spilling onto the walkway. 

“Here we go!” Anthony calls. 

Deacon breathes in, leans out, and lets instinct take over.

\----

When Deacon was a kid still working his way through the scraps of the library’s movie collection, he found some educational film buried at the bottom of one of the stacks. It flickered to life on the old classroom projector in black and white, the title card spilling over the wall in slanted script: _Stupendous Science! An Extraordinary Journey Through Modern Laboratories_. Deacon remembers rolling his eyes, ready to pop the tape back out. But as the credits passed and the camera panned over some kind of office building lit up by a bright white sun, he found himself drawn in. Not by the narrator, who tried his best to describe the flashing scenes of lab equipment and men leaning over beakers like they were football players running to the end zone (Deacon had watched one of those movies the week before. _Way_ more interesting). No, the commentary he hardly listened to. But the glimpses of the spotless labs, and of the people inside them? Those caught his attention the way even the most boring of these movies always did: he was looking at some of the only surviving memories of the World Before. The only windows into what it looked like whole, and unbroken. 

Halfway through the movie, some balding scientist with a name Deacon immediately forgot started droning on about animal experiments. They cut between shots of him sitting stiffly in front of an American flag to what looked like some elaborately constructed maze. Then the camera zoomed in on a little white rat being dropped in the far corner. Its nose twitched and twitched as it raced along the walls, turning, hesitating, sniffing the air, and turning again. 

He can’t help thinking of that rat now as he ducks into yet another cramped office. Overturned cabinets choke the hallway outside, stacked with chairs locked together by the legs, and topped with a pair of end tables wedged against the ceiling. It’s the third, or maybe the fourth, makeshift dead end they’ve run into. And about the ninety-seventh office they’ve had to wind through instead. Might’ve been a few conference rooms thrown in there. It’s all starting to blur together. So are the uniforms. They find more dead Gunners than live ones, but the live ones are… well. Lively. 

Deacon skids down behind some wooden shelves, bracing his shoulder against the side. A bullet splits the corner just above his head. If only there were a giant pile of cheese waiting for him at the end of this maze—you know, instead of a death sentence. 

Another bullet punctures the drywall behind him, spitting paint chips at the floor. _Focus_. Across from him, tucked behind a half-wall in front of an old desk, Hancock flinches and lifts his pistol. Deacon can hear the others in the hall, trading shots through the chair legs of the blockade. Anthony’s strategy had lasted one floor before the tight squeeze through small room after tiny corridor slowed their advance to a crawl. They’re now somewhere around the fourth floor, if Deacon’s count of staircases and collapsed ceilings is right, and it’s a free-for-all. The scenery hasn’t improved, and neither has the company. 

He leans out. He sees a Gunner peeking around a desk across the room. Deacon shoots for him, and startles himself by actually hitting the mark. Blood spurts across the floor, and the Gunner slumps, his gun rolling from his fingers. 

Deacon only has a single moment of stunned victory before another Gunner swings through the door at the other end of the office, waving a tire iron and racing toward them. Deacon turns Deliverer on him, but Hancock beats him to the shot. In an upsetting burst of flesh and fabric, the Gunner’s kneecap shatters beneath his torn pant leg. He collapses, screaming, and blood pours down his leg. Deacon sees Hancock round the wall.

“God, they’re like radroaches,” he says. Deacon watches him step around the whimpering man, stopping at his shoulder. “You kill one and nine more come skittering out.”

He turns the pistol, and fires a single shot into the Gunner’s head. The man goes still.

Nausea churns in Deacon’s stomach again. He stands quickly, tearing his eyes away from the mangled leg just as Anthony marches into the room, MacCready and Nick in tow. He pauses, glances between Hancock and Deacon, and then walks on through the office. Deacon has to look down to step around the body when he follows, but he jerks his eyes back up quickly when they fall on the puddle soaking down into the carpet. He looks at the other side of the barricade as they emerge into the hallway, and the two Gunners sprawled below it. 

And he thinks of rats in a maze.

\----

“What are they all even doing here?” Deacon asks later, once they’ve fought their way to the fifth floor, to a room ringed with dark computer consoles covered in buttons. “What’s here that would interest the Gunners?”

“It’s not a bad base,” MacCready says from ahead of him, turning his head to the side. They push out past a few rusted vending machines. “A whole intact office building has a lot of room and a lot of choke points. If they’d had time to set up traps and get more control of the turrets…” He trails off as they move into another corridor, this one lined with windows that look out onto the strange courtyard a few floors below. 

“Fair enough,” Deacon murmurs. They all crouch low and fall quiet, following Anthony to a junction near the end. It splits the hall three ways. Ahead of them is an alcove that looks like it once belonged to maintenance, judging by the stray tools left strewn over the metal drawer unit against the wall. To the left, another walkway juts out over the courtyard. The right hallway seems to turn deeper into the building, though how far Deacon can’t see from where he waits.

“Hey, you want me to look at that? Might control the security system, if we’re lucky,” Nick says quietly once Anthony relaxes back, clearly satisfied no one’s going to jump them. Nick points to a terminal bolted to the wall next to the bridge. Anthony turns his head to squint at it. 

He hesitates a moment, then sighs and stands. “All right. But quickly. Every moment we wait, he’s getting further ahead.” 

Deacon shifts away from the wall, and kneels on the other side of the doorway that leads to the catwalk. He hears MacCready’s coat rustle close behind him, and tries not to think about why just the sound, just knowing he’s close, eases something coiled tight under Deacon’s skin.

To keep himself from looking back, he slings his pack down. He tucks Deliverer away, and then pulls out his sniper rifle. He makes a show of checking it over and loading it, but as he does he lets his eyes drift up. Anthony leans against the maintenance drawers. Deacon watches his hands move in the same motions. His face is blank, focused on the gun, but Deacon can tell he’s gritting his teeth. His knuckles wrap tight and pale around the box of bullets he pulls from his pack. His eyes keep darting up to the bridge, then to Nick, then back down again. Deacon almost stands, fishing for the threads of something to say, something to ease that twitching muscle in Anthony’s jaw, and distract Deacon himself. But then the terminal beeps, and Nick mutters a curse under his breath. Around the other side of him, Hancock’s hat bobs into view. A moment passes, and then Nick suddenly jerks his elbow up. 

Hancock leans further into Deacon’s view, laughing his raspy little laugh. Deacon can see his fingers half-raised where Nick had pulled away. “Easy, Silver Fox, just looking at this new fashion statement you’re making.” 

“Silver—?” Nick scoffs and looks over at him. The brim of Nick’s hat covers his face, but Deacon can feel the annoyance from where he crouches. “Knock it off, will ya? I’m trying to concentrate. Just got grazed is all. I’ll fix the sleeve at home.

“Another patch for the collection,” Hancock says with amusement. “Ever think about trying something new? Less… falling apart?”

“Have you?” 

Hancock laughs again. Out of the corner of his eye, Deacon sees Anthony glance up, a little of the tension easing out of his shoulders. 

“Touche,” Hancock says. “Just saying, a little smooth, dark leather—” 

“Yeah, I’m sure the Gunners would be very impressed before I shot them,” Nick says, fingers pressing a little more firmly at the keyboard. He stares pointedly at the computer screen. 

“Well, some of us would enjoy the show.” 

The terminal beeps for a third time. Nick’s shoulders drop and he turns to glare at Hancock again. “You’re persistent, I’ll give you that.”

Deacon just barely catches a glimpse of Hancock smirking again. “You know that Old World saying about Isaac Newton and light bulbs?” 

“Thomas Edison.”

“Whatever.” 

Anthony snorts from behind them. Deacon looks over at him again. He’s slung the rifle back behind him, and sits a little less stiffly on the top of the drawer unit.

Nick turns his face back to the terminal. Quietly, enough that Deacon almost doesn’t hear, he says, “What are you going to do with yourself if I ever finally flirt back?”

Hancock isn’t quiet at all. “How much time do you have?” 

The terminal finally makes a different noise, and Nick smiles. “None. Boss, we’re in.”

“Thank god,” Anthony says, standing, but he looks more entertained than he sounds. 

“Let me just—” Nick’s fingers dance over the keys, the metal ones clicking oddly against them. Then he steps back. “There. That should put security on our side.”

“Let’s move,” Anthony says, cocking his rifle and marching immediately for the walkway. Deacon falls into step after him.

“_Really_?” Deacon hears MacCready mutter behind him. 

Hancock chuckles. “Can’t blame me for trying.” 

\----

“The Courser’s after the girl. Anyone alive needs to head to the top floor immediately. That’s an order!”

Deacon locks eyes with Anthony after the announcement cuts out. They’re standing in the wake of another shootout, in the middle of some kind of meeting room. They don’t speak. They don’t need to. They’re on the stairs in seconds, the others following close behind.

This is a rescue mission now. 

The words ring in Deacon’s ears as they race up to floor number six. _The Courser’s after the girl._ There’s a synth. Of course there’s a synth. He should’ve known the Courser was after something. Someone. They don’t send Coursers to just tear through buildings for fun, though then again Deacon can’t say that would surprise him, either. But no, he’s after a synth. Why the fuck do the Gunners have a synth? Then Deacon thinks of the cages they saw on a truck bed in Quincy, ominously empty, and of Bullet eyeing up Billy like a prized brahmin steak. Yeah, all right, maybe that one didn’t need a whole lot of explanation. But it was raiders Deacon usually expected this shit from. 

The grey light that seemed to fill the whole building fades as they reach the top of the staircase, sinking them slowly into darkness. The room they emerge in has only a single light, trained on the door at the other end. A little more peeks through a hole in the floor, covered by a slapdash set of wooden boards. Deacon swivels his head around to check the room. He clocks the dim shape of consoles and filing cabinets in the dark, and another door in the far corner, but no movement. Good enough. He heads toward the spotlit door. 

He doesn’t think much of the footsteps following him until the collar of his vest is grabbed and yanked back, hard. He stumbles, falling against someone behind him, the boards clattering underneath his boots. He whips his head up, shades slipping low on his nose, and finds himself staring up at the dark shape of MacCready. 

“What the hell are you—”

“Look,” MacCready hisses, cutting him off and pointing. Deacon follows his finger to the floor ahead of them. Crossing at ankle height between two computer consoles, Deacon sees the faded red glow of a laser tripwire. Above it, tucked into the side of a desk on one side, is a laser rifle, aimed where Deacon stands.

“Oh,” Deacon says, more like a punch of air than a word. MacCready lets go of him with a scoff that Deacon just knows means, _You’re welcome, you idiot_. “I—uh, thanks.”

MacCready doesn’t answer. He winds through the minefield of furniture to the reception desk next to the door. Deacon hears the others fanning out through the room behind him. He pushes himself forward, bending a little to fit behind one of the consoles supporting the tripwire. He grips his rifle and peeks over the top.

MacCready takes position next to the door, just inside some kind of weird wall-railing hybrid that cuts the desk off from the door. MacCready looks past where Deacon crouches, out into the room. Out of the corner of his eye, Deacon sees Anthony fold himself behind the console across from him. The movements of the others fall silent behind them.

“Ready?” MacCready stage whispers. Deacon sees Anthony nod. MacCready reaches over, waving his hand in front of the door. He jerks it back when the motion sensor clicks on, and the door slides open.

A shout erupts from the next room. Deacon braces himself.

A Gunner in little more than a harness sprints through the door, and Deacon and Anthony both straighten and aim. The Gunner carries only a switchblade, raised above his shoulder, as he runs toward them. Deacon catches MacCready lifting his rifle in his periphery, but all three of them seem to realize at the same time that the Gunner isn’t slowing. His eyes lock on Deacon, and his elbow starts to arc down just as the tripwire hits his ankles.

A single shot bursts from the triggered rifle behind him. He yelps. The pain pitches him forward, and his arms swing wildly. Deacon leans back, but not far enough, and the switchblade slices a shallow gash across his cheek. 

“Fuck!” he yells, stumbling backward.

The Gunner slams to the floor. Deacon’s eyes water with the sting. He blinks them clear in time to see Anthony fire a single shot into the back of the Gunner’s head. Deacon kneels, trying to keep low as the pain distracts him. He can feel a few drops of blood sliding toward his jaw. He fights down the instinct to touch his cheek. It’ll only leave his fingers too slick to grip the rifle.

“Deacon!” MacCready calls, just as another Gunner barrels through the door. Deacon presses himself back against the edge of the reception desk. He hears another shot, and then a thump.

“I’m good!” Deacon finally calls, though it pulls roughly at his cheek and makes him hiss. “I’ll be fine!”

A barrage of lasers comes flying through the door next. All five of them go still, waiting for the clip to empty. The second it stops, Anthony runs forward, and Hancock follows. Nick slides to his knees at Deacon’s side.

“Here, got a stimpak.” He’s already fishing in his pocket with his free hand. Deacon shakes his head, pushing at Nick’s elbow. 

“It’s a waste, it’s just a cut. Go. Go!”

Nick frowns, but he climbs back to his feet without much further argument. Deacon reaches a hand out to the desk at his back, twisting around to do the same. His cheek aches, and it’s starting to throb. Blood slides down the skin under his jaw. It’ll swell a little, later. He forces himself to ignore it. Nick’s already through the door when Deacon looks, and he turns to follow when he catches sight of MacCready. MacCready’s eyes dart over his face, a quick stock, but he nods before Deacon can say anything and swings himself over the half-wall to run ahead of Deacon.

Deacon surveys the next room as he darts to the side. More stairs straight ahead, splitting off in either direction from a landing that leads to an elevator. The stairs climb to an open upper floor over Deacon’s head. To the sides: smaller offices, blessedly empty. The room is littered with more of the computer equipment that had filled the waiting room, and a whole slew of Gunner corpses, dead long enough to bleed out onto the floor. 

Anthony’s trading shots with a better-armored Gunner on the stairs, hunching a little behind a pile of consoles. Deacon hears the strange cough of a laser gun further above him, and Hancock grunting and then firing back. Both Gunners fall before Nick and MacCready even reach the stairs. 

MacCready stops mid-step, watching the armored Gunner slide limply down the stairs a little. Nick breaks off, wandering to the side of the room to check the offices. Deacon starts to follow suit, still trying to ignore the sting of the gash.

“Are we sure this is just one Courser?”

Deacon turns back around. MacCready’s staring at another corpse as he says it, this one slumped under the stairs. He quietly adds, “He’s killed half an entire army of Gunners, completely alone?”

“Yes.” Deacon’s voice is harder than he means it to be, but it hits the mark. MacCready’s eyes shoot up, fixing on him. Deacon can see Anthony looking at him, too. “If we were dealing with more than one, the whole army would be dead.”

MacCready keeps looking at him. He doesn’t answer, but Deacon watches his brow slowly bend in as Deacon’s words sink in. He knows that look. He’s watched it come over the faces of runners, and other agents, the first time they see the ruin a Courser leaves behind. 

“Clear up here,” Hancock’s voice drifts down from the floor above. MacCready finally looks away. “That elevator looks like the only way up, unless there’s stairs back down there.” Deacon sees his head lean into view over the railing.

“Nope,” Nick says, strolling back from the other side of the room. “Nothing here either.”

“Then our chariot awaits,” Deacon says. “Lemme just—” He motions to his cheek and starts to reach for the strap of his pack. He can feel the tacky blood making the collar of his shirt stick against his shoulder. 

“Here,” MacCready says. He reaches into a pouch clipped to his thigh, and pulls out a torn strip of cloth. He holds it out. 

Deacon recognizes it as the cloth MacCready usually uses to clean his gun. “Isn’t that—”

“Just take it,” MacCready says. 

Deacon pulls it from his fingers, trying his best not to brush them with his own. He murmurs his thanks. He starts swiping at his neck, and the underside of his jaw, as he follows the others into the elevator.

\----

The next floor is different from the others. No offices, no conference rooms, almost no furniture. Just a wide, circular room with the space in the center, and all around the sides, divided away by metal grating that reminds Deacon of cages.

“Okay, the fuck is all this for?” Hancock says, squinting at the room as he steps in behind Deacon. “Did they lock the naughty scientists up here?”

Deacon snorts in spite of himself, and sees Anthony crack a smile as he leans to peek through the grating. Then his smile falters. He holds a hand up, and all of them freeze. He pulls the hand back to press a finger to his lips. Deacon angles his ear better, and listens. 

He hears a faint whimper echoing down from above them. Then a quivering voice says, “I don’t know the password! I’m telling the truth!”

Another voice comes, this one lower, calmer. A voice that sends a chill down Deacon’s spine. “I don’t believe you are.”

“You don’t have to do this—” The first voice cuts off as a gunshot echoes down through the chamber. Anthony and Deacon stiffen at the same time. Deacon’s eyes shoot up the metal grating. It’s open to the floors above; Deacon can see railings going up two more floors, and a few flickering shadows of movement. There’s something dark against the highest railing, but it’s too far to make out the shape of it.

Anthony straightens and whispers, “All right, we need to—”

“Wait,” Deacon says, sinking his fingers into Anthony’s sleeve and tugging. “Wait, I—over here.”

He pulls Anthony back out of the chamber so their voices won’t carry. His mind is racing, and he tries to pull the lines and words flying through his thoughts into a coherent shape.

“Was that the Courser?” Hancock asks quietly. 

“Had to be. And if I heard right, he needs something. He’s torturing them to get it,” Deacon says. 

Nick grimaces. “Good god.”

Anthony frowns, starting to turn back toward the room. “So then we need to—”

“Hang on. This could be our way of getting an advantage. If we can avoid barging in there headfirst we might save a lot of ammunition. And possibly our lives,” Deacon says. 

Anthony glances anxiously at the ceiling. “All right. I’m listening. Talk fast.”

“We go in carefully. He’s going to see us one way or the other but if we try to get him talking, try to get him to say what he’s after, or get him to think we might have it, we get a few extra minutes before the firefight. I have a stealth boy.” He pats the side of his backpack. “One of us goes in stealth behind the others, uses the time to line up a shot, and nails him before he goes invisible. Even if it doesn’t kill him, a good hit will slow him down.” 

Anthony looks at Deacon’s pack, then back at Deacon. “And if he won’t talk?”

“We do what we would’ve done anyway,” Deacon says. “Maybe still get a lucky shot in if he doesn’t realize there’s one more of us.”

Anthony slowly nods. “All right. I think we all know who has the best chance at this.” He looks over Deacon’s shoulder. “RJ?” 

“Got it,” MacCready says. He steps to Deacon’s side, and Deacon starts to shrug off his pack and pull it open. 

“I think it might be best if you or I get him talking, Bullseye,” Deacon says as he works the stealth boy free. “And I’ve heard your silver tongue—”

“Yeah, okay, I’ll take care of it. Just get him talking?” Anthony says.

Deacon passes the stealth boy to MacCready. “Anything, but if we can get him to tell us what he’s after we might keep his attention longer.”

Deacon watches MacCready clip the stealth boy to the belt around his waist. Then he looks back up at Deacon again. Deacon swallows down against a sharp jab of anxiety and gives him a tight nod. 

“Well! This’ll either be hilarious or completely insane,” Hancock murmurs as they start to creep back toward the chamber. Nick elbows him. 

But even Hancock seems to fall quiet as they climb to the next floor. That icy voice from above grows louder as they go. 

“I’m going to get in there. It’s just a matter of time.” 

They can hear what Deacon guesses to be another Gunner, talking quickly in reply. “Look, I already told you, I don't have it. I’ll help you find a way in, but listen, we took the girl fair and square. All we want is a little compensation in return.”

Deacon curls his lip as they cross the second chamber and head up yet another staircase, the Courser’s reply fading back out of earshot. Fucking Gunners. Each step up feels like it takes as long as scaling an entire floor, and even the muffled tap of their boots sounds too loud in the fragile silence. Deacon can’t seem to calm his heart, his pulse jumping higher with every sudden sound. They’re so close. They’re so fucking close. He’s walking willingly toward a Courser. He fights back the flashes of memory that keep nagging him as he ascends the stairs: every single way this could go wrong—every single way he’s seen it go wrong, right in front of him. 

As they reach the top of the staircase, Deacon glances back to tell MacCready to hit the stealth boy. But the stairs below him stand empty. He whirls back around, looking up into the darkness of the top floor, where the others wait. MacCready’s not with them. 

“Bo—” he starts to whisper, then stops, twisting his lips. Stupid slip. “MacCready?” He tries again. “Mac—”

He jumps when a hand presses against the back of his vest. Even through the heavy fabric, Deacon feels the faint imprint of warmth. 

“I’m here,” he hears, somewhere close behind him. Deacon’s shoulders automatically ease. No hiding that. Well, whatever.

“Right,” he says, more to himself than MacCready. “Okay.” He resettles his grip on his rifle, mostly just to move the restless energy out of his fingertips. He pushes his feet the rest of the way up the stairs, and hears MacCready’s sure footfalls behind him. 

Light floods the chamber ahead, and spills through the shadows of the room before. They move as a group. Deacon can see him now, see the telltale black coat, the boots that squeak on the linoleum. Anthony reaches the edge of the chamber first, and the Courser whips around as he does, training a laser rifle on him. Deacon tenses, his breath catching. 

“You’ve been following me,” the Courser says, toneless, too calm. 

Deacon feels another touch, this time on his shoulder. It slides off to his left. Anthony keeps slowly advancing, and Deacon silently taps Nick’s elbow and nods for him to fan out to the far side of the railing, while he and Hancock spread to Anthony’s right. A clean line, right across the floor, to block any sign of MacCready moving into position behind them. The Courser keeps his rifle pointed at Anthony, but his eyes drift over each of them. Deacon holds his muscles tight and still, even though he feels the urge to flinch back. 

“Isn’t this a motley crew,” the Courser says. Deacon hears the first hint of any feeling in his voice, though it’s little more than detached interest. “Are you here for the synth?”

Deacon knows, with the kind of certainty that comes from years of this terrible tango, that the Courser is asking if they’re Railroad. Deacon wants to look at Anthony, or back over his shoulder to see if he can catch the light bending over MacCready’s hidden shoulders. But he keeps still. 

“What synth?” Anthony says. A gamble, if Deacon had to guess, to keep him talking.

But Coursers are not Gunners, or raiders. They’re not the supervillains that fill the Old World’s comic books. They’re not so simple to finesse. Deacon should’ve told him that.

The Courser’s eyes narrow at Anthony. They’re a piercing, strange sort of grey, and he looks a little more rugged and weathered in the face than Deacon’s used to seeing on these guys. Not that he ever spends much time looking, when he sees one. He forces himself to study the man, now that he has the chance, half to funnel his nerves into something useful and half because he never expects to have a chance like this again. He takes in the thick, ribbed shoulders of the coat, and the large silver buckle at the Courser’s waist, diamond-shaped. The coat looks heavy, but fitted, and it’s buttoned down to mid-thigh. So no other weapons on him, not that would be easy to reach, or have significant fire power. A shock baton like the ones that the Gen-1s sometimes carry might fit slipped down his boot, but it would leave a misshapen imprint up his calf. The coat seems thick enough to be armored, the collar buttoned high up his neck, but nothing protects his head. 

“If you’re not here for the synth, then you’re here for me,” the Courser says coolly, pulling Deacon’s attention back to his face. “What do you want?”

Yeah, quick on the uptake, too quick to be pushed into rambling out his plans, like Deacon figured. _Password, Anthony. Ask him about the password he wants._ If they can just buy a little more time, just keep him right there, and still…

But instead, Anthony says, “What’s so important about this synth to get you and the Gunners fighting over it?” 

“The synth is a fugitive. Runaway Institute property. I’m here to shut her down and return her where she belongs,” the Courser says, sounding almost like he’s reciting something. 

“And what exactly is the Institute?” 

Deacon shuts his eyes under his sunglasses for a moment, and tightens his grip on his gun. He’s not surprised to see the Courser’s expression harden. Jesus, Anthony. Way to overplay your hand. 

“I do not have time for such questions. If you are only here to hinder me, you will die like the rest of them.”

His finger starts to squeeze the trigger, the barrel aimed right at Anthony’s head. Then a rifle shot cracks the air behind them. In less than a second, the bullet splits through the Courser’s forehead. Blood fountains down over his face. The laser rifle clatters to the floor, and then the Courser slams down after it. Deacon watches, wide-eyed and stunned. Blood pours down over the floor beneath his body, but still, for a moment, Deacon’s sure he’s going to move. He’s going to sit up and fumble for the rifle. Deacon immediately trains his own gun on the Courser’s chest, and sees Anthony move toward it at the same time. Anthony stands at the Courser’s side, blood pooling around his boots. He waits. They all do. Then slowly, carefully, Anthony digs the toe of his boot into the Courser’s ribs and pushes. Nothing. Not a single twitch of muscle.

“Holy shit,” Hancock breathes, his voice slicing abruptly through the silence. 

Deacon turns sharply around. His eyes frantically circle the empty space behind him. After a moment, the air seems to melt back, falling away to reveal MacCready’s shoulders, his arms, his face. And oh god, he’s got that same bright-eyed smile spreading over his lips that he did the day he walked into the Church, fresh from MedTek. It makes Deacon’s breath catch. Whatever he might’ve said dries up in his throat. 

“Mac!” Hancock shouts, before Deacon can find his voice again. He reaches forward and slaps the back of MacCready’s shoulder. “That was one in a fucking million!” 

MacCready laughs, a little breathless, and slings the rifle back. And it finally seems to hit Deacon, all at once, overtaking anxiety and adrenaline and everything else rattling his nerves like a string of tin cans: MacCready killed a Courser. MacCready _killed_ a Courser. In one, single shot. And god, he looks so good like this. Bright-eyed, smiling, still panting a little, and _victorious_. Deacon’s brain snags on that single thought, hard enough that he doesn’t think to stop staring before MacCready catches him. MacCready killed a fucking Courser. Their eyes lock. 

“Hey! Over here! Please!” 

Deacon turns around again. On the wall behind where the Courser now lays, there’s a window Deacon hadn’t seen before. Metal slats cover it like blinds, and maybe that was it, they’d been shut tight while the Courser still lived. They’re open now, revealing a young woman knocking at the glass. Oh shit. The synth. Deacon jogs forward to join Anthony at the window, circling around the growing puddle of blood on the floor.

\----

She doesn’t let them help, in the end. She accepts the Courser’s laser rifle, and a pair of stimpaks from MacCready (Deacon’s still processing that one), and nods without listening when Deacon tells her to look up Stockton in Bunker Hill. And then she’s gone. 

Deacon slumps down on the edge of the table in the room that had held her. He feels hollow, his body bled dry of adrenaline, and fear, and whatever energy was left underneath. He’d felt so strange, watching the synth—Jenny, she said—walk away. He’s struggling to shake the feeling, or even name it. It just settles heavy in his shoulders, like exhaustion, or maybe that just _is_ exhaustion. And god, his cheek fucking hurts. 

Outside the room, he can hear the others talking about the Courser’s chip. He catches the conversation in snatches, but tunes out completely when Hancock volunteers the knife he keeps tucked into his boot. Instead, Deacon lets his pack drop from his shoulders onto the table behind him. He twists and rummages through it. Near the bottom his fingers land on the little makeshift first aid kit he usually carries with him. He’d left his pocket mirror behind with the rest of his things in Sanctuary, but better cleaning the cut by touch than not cleaning it at all. God only knows where the hell that switchblade had been. Hidden in the ass pocket of a Gunner, if nothing else, so that was enough to send him digging for the antiseptic right there.

He pulls the kit open, and sets the antiseptic bottle on the table. One side of the kit holds a bunch of torn pieces of cloth, clean before he’d cut them. He pulls one free of the pile and tips the bottle over it to soak it. The fluid comes out too fast, and drips over his fingers. He grumbles a curse and shakes them out. With his dry hand, he pushes his sunglasses up on the crown of his head. Then he carefully lifts the cloth and dabs the edge of the cut.

It _burns_. It burns all the way up his cheek, enough to make him hiss and nearly drop the cloth, fumbling it over his fingers. “Fucking hell!” 

“You could just ask.” 

Deacon looks up, lips still pulled back to bare his gritted teeth. MacCready’s standing in the doorway. He folds his arms and presses his shoulder to the doorjamb. 

“Ask what?” Deacon chokes out. “Anyway dealing with this isn’t half as fun as celebrating the fucking miracle you just pulled out there. Jesus.” 

“‘MacCready’ will do.” He smirks at Deacon, eyes glinting a little. “It was pretty cool.” 

“‘Pretty cool’?” Deacon repeats. He re-folds the cloth and starts to lift it again. “Sure, let’s go for the understatement of the Post-War—agh, son of a _bitch_.” 

“Oh my god, here.” MacCready pushes off the doorframe and holds out his hand. Deacon blinks at him for a moment, then slowly drops the cloth into his palm. MacCready sits down next to him on the table, one foot on the floor, turned a little to face him. He gently presses the fingers of his free hand to the other side of Deacon’s jaw to hold him steady. Deacon refuses to acknowledge the weird little flip his stomach does, though the touch is nothing but clinical. He doesn’t even have time to mentally kick himself before the sting lights up across his face again, wiping his thoughts clear.

“Fuck,” he grounds out. He fights the urge to pull away as MacCready swipes the cloth across the cut a few times. Then it’s gone, and Deacon hears the rattle of the kit being pulled closer over the tabletop. MacCready wets another cloth, and then lifts it again.

“I owe you an apology,” MacCready says, after a few moments of quiet punctuated only by Deacon’s smothered groans. 

Deacon starts to look at him, but MacCready’s hand tightens to keep his head still. So instead Deacon just says, “_You_ owe _me_—ah, shit—an apology? For what?”

MacCready takes another moment to clean across the cut before he answers. “I didn’t understand. When we talked, in the Church. I didn’t understand what you were so afraid of.”

Deacon feels the cloth pause a moment, and he winces as the sting builds. MacCready immediately starts moving it again. “I thought maybe you were just being—I don’t know.”

“Paranoid?” Deacon supplies. He cuts his eyes to the side to see what he can of MacCready’s face. 

MacCready sighs, and pulls the cloth away again. Deacon hears him wetting another one. “Or overprotective. Selling me short. I’ve faced down a lot of crap, most of it on purpose, and you were acting like… you thought I wasn’t good enough. Couldn’t handle myself. Or worse, you were just using it as an excuse. When you just disappeared, I—”

“I know you can handle yourself,” Deacon says quietly, interrupting. He doesn’t want to know what MacCready thought when he left. He can guess. “You can handle yourself better than anyone I know. I—wait. That came out weird.” He frowns, and MacCready lets out a little breath of a laugh as Deacon adds, “Look, my point is—” 

“I get it,” MacCready says. When the cloth touches Deacon’s cheek again, it’s lower, and it doesn’t sting. MacCready rubs it over his skin, and Deacon realizes he’s cleaning the trail of blood underneath. “I didn’t know. What they could do. You were right about that. I’ve never seen anything take out an army like that solo.”

Deacon looks out the doorway, his eyes tracing the line of the railing at the floor’s edge. MacCready cleans the last streaks of blood from his throat. Deacon thinks of that old science movie again, of the rat and its twitching nose.

“They never stop hunting us. Hunting the synths. And if they catch us?” Deacon sighs and waves a hand toward the door. 

The cloth stills against Deacon’s neck again, then falls away. In Deacon’s periphery, MacCready frowns. “Crap, I—I’m sorry. So that’s why—that night you got shot—“

“Yeah,” Deacon says. “They always send a Courser after them, so we always send protection. If we’re lucky, they look in the wrong place, and we never see them. But there are plenty of other things on those runs that want to kill us in the meantime.”

Deacon carefully turns his head a little, to see MacCready better. But MacCready isn’t looking at him anymore. His head is bent over the first aid kit. He looks lost in thought. 

“I know all the secrecy seems like we’re jumping at shadows from the outside,” Deacon continues quietly, “but we’ve lost more safehouses than I can count to the Coursers. Agents, too. We’ve lost seven HQs since I joined.” He swallows, his throat suddenly dry. “I was the only survivor, the first time. Played dead in a pool of someone else’s blood.”

MacCready looks up sharply. “God, Deacon.”

Deacon turns toward him completely. MacCready doesn’t stop him this time, though his hand doesn’t leave Deacon’s jaw, either. 

“The worst is the ones that had families, lovers—people outside the Railroad. If the Institute finds out—“ He shakes his head. “I’ve seen it happen. Again and again. I won’t put anyone in their crosshairs if I can help it, especially not—“ But he isn’t brave enough to finish that sentence. 

MacCready’s eyes move over Deacon’s face. Quietly, he says, “It went a lot worse for him that it did for me.” 

A small, tentative smile tugs the corner of Deacon’s mouth up. A little swell of pride, even if he doesn’t have much right to it. “Yeah, I guess it did.” 

He sees an answering smile spread over MacCready’s lips. He watches for a moment. And then his own fades as he adds, “This time.” 

Because what if he wasn’t so lucky next time? Deacon had been here. Deacon had been here with stealth boys and the instincts to throw that plan together. To give MacCready the upper hand. Yes, that shot was all MacCready, and he deserved every ounce of credit for it. But if Deacon’s not there next time? If they come in the night, take MacCready by surprise, take him before he can even reach for his rifle?

Deacon’s pulled from his thoughts by the feather light touch of MacCready’s thumb sliding over his chin. It’s so faint that Deacon almost thinks he imagined it, until he sees the way MacCready’s looking at him. 

“I’m not afraid, Deacon,” he whispers. 

Deacon’s throat tightens as he feels that touch again, a little firmer. Deacon squeezes his hands around the edge of the table. God, he’s still so fucking in this. A month away had done nothing to dim the fire that lights under Deacon’s skin every time MacCready touches him. He wonders what MacCready can see in his face, if the longing making his fingers ache lives in his eyes, too.

“Got it! Fuck yeah!” 

Anthony’s voice bursts through the quiet outside. “Guys! Deacon! RJ! We got the chip!”

MacCready pulls his hand away, clearing his throat. Deacon takes a shaky breath, and lowers his feet back to the floor. 

“Coming,” he calls out the door. He turns to start repacking the first aid kit, trying to ignore the way his hands shake on the lid. When he closes it, a stimpak suddenly lands on top of it. Deacon looks up.

“I’ve got more,” MacCready says. 

“I don’t—” 

“You do. Take it.”

MacCready stands, adjusting the straps of his own pack on his shoulders. He moves back out the door. Deacon stares down at the stimpak, then sighs, reaches for it, and rolls up his sleeve.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Summary: They walk in the aftermath of a massacre, which triggers Deacon into a flashback. They have to fight their way through the building, though they find more dead Gunners than live ones. Deacon gets a minor injury to the cheek when he's grazed by a switchblade. Once they get to the upper floors, Deacon and Anthony overhear the Courser torturing the Gunners for the password to the synth's cell. Deacon hatches a plan to have MacCready use a stealth boy and line up a shot while the others try to distract the Courser with talking. MacCready kills the Courser in a single shot. Afterward, while the others try to get the Courser's chip, MacCready helps Deacon clean his cheek and confesses he didn't understand how bad the Coursers really were. Deacon tells him briefly about the Coursers destroying their HQs, and that he was the only survivor of his first. MacCready starts to understand, but tells Deacon he's not afraid of them. Their moment is interrupted when the others get the chip. 
> 
> End notes:  
1) I can have little a Hancock/Valentine flirting, as a treat. I'm not setting up a subplot here, just to be honest, but I enjoy the idea that Hancock just keeps flirting with Nick all the time, before and after this, even if Nick constantly shoots him down. Hell, maybe one of these days it'll work. 
> 
> 2) Okay so I kinda tweaked the laser wire trap in that upper room because I don't actually remember what it sets off and I couldn't tell from videos. I think it's actually a bomb, but oh well. 
> 
> 3) I want you all to know that my beta left a comment on the draft for the interruption in the last scene that was just "COCKBLOCKS!!!" And yeah. Sorry. 
> 
> Chapter 17 is finished and I'm dying to post it, so hopefully it'll keep me motivated to get Chapter 18 done fast. I want to at least get one more in before I have to focus all my free time on moving next month. Also, I keep forgetting to mention, but if you want to chat more about Fallout or this fic, or just wanna say hey, I'm on tumblr @electricshoebox and on twitter @galaxiesgone. I think a lot of people found this through tumblr but I'm probably more active on twitter, if you don't mind me also gushing about other fandoms.


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the wake of their victory, Deacon makes a decision, and MacCready reaches a breaking point.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! Thank you for your patience, friends, the next chapter gave me some trouble and I've been fighting through exhaustion and headaches. But at last, I can finally share this chapter with you. I've been so anxious about it. This is one of those chapters I've been planning since I started writing, and there are parts of this I've had written and waiting since Chapter 1. I really, really hope you find it worth the wait. You'll notice the rating change. Yes, it's why you think. :) If you'd like to listen to some music that heavily inspired and fueled this chapter, I listened to "Old Wounds" by PVRIS and "Say It" by Flume (feat. Tove Lo) pretty much nonstop while putting this together.
> 
> A million thanks to **serenityfails** for reading this over and over for me and helping me get it right. And thanks to **hurdlelocker** for helping me talk through some tricky spots and keeping me motivated when my anxiety kept getting the better of me.
> 
> Warnings: Explicit (enthusiastically consensual) sexual content. Heavy discussion of canonical tragedy and survivor's guilt. Brief description of canonical murder. Brief description of a lynching. Brief mention of vomiting. If either of those last two bother you, skip from "He still remembers the blood" to "slapped his back and laughed." You won't miss anything major. 
> 
> Due to moving over the next couple weeks, I won't be posting another update until June. I apologize, but I hope this will be sustaining until then. I promise you, we still have plenty more to go. Current outline is now at 24 chapters. Wishing all of you the best!

Deacon stares down at the holotape in his hands. He stares at the pristine yellow plastic, the short little grooves in the front, the rounded edges. He’s holding the key to everything. Stripped out strings of code, letters and numbers and symbols, imprinted on tape. How could something so small change everything? 

He might be a little tipsy. A little.

Which reminds him of the beer bottle in his other hand, resting on the arm of the couch. He tips it up to his lips. Half empty already. It’s his—second? Third? Second. He’s pretty sure. His eyes roll toward the coffee table in front of him, but the collection of empty bottles cluttering the tabletop tells him nothing. Nothing except he definitely didn’t drink eight bottles, and they’re probably _all_ a little tipsy, at that count. Someone laughs across from him, too loud. The table rattles as a boot knocks against the leg.

Funny that he’s spent all these years trawling Goodneighbor’s finest back alleys, and this is his first time in Hancock’s office. It looks much like the rest of Goodneighbor: thrown together, ramshackle, falling apart at the seams, and covered in stains Deacon doesn’t honestly want the story behind. But it’s comfortable, too. Somehow. The light is warm, and the couches are still plush for all the rips in the cushions, and it smells pleasantly of cigarette smoke and old wood. Maybe that first one shouldn’t be pleasant, but catching the scent of it always makes him think of the Third Rail, of a good drink and good music and a crowd to sink into. And it also makes him think of—

He hears the laugh again, and looks up to see MacCready bent back over the arm of the couch opposite Deacon’s, shoulders shaking. He’s laughing at something Hancock’s saying as he gestures wildly with his beer bottle. Anthony sits smiling between them, shaking his head. Deacon’s not really listening to the words, but he watches Hancock bellow something else and sweep the bottle high. Anthony jerks back, narrowly missing being clocked in the face with the bottle neck, his eyeglasses sliding askew. That sets MacCready off again, tears starting to slide down his bright red cheeks and into the hair peeking out from under his hat. He fumbles blindly to set his own beer on the coffee table, nearly dropping it to the floor instead. Deacon can’t help a little smile of his own. Then his eyes wander back to the holotape.

“You know, it’s not going to disappear if you put it down for a second.”

Deacon tilts his head to look up at Nick, who’s settling back against the counter next to him. He folds his arms over his chest. As he does, Deacon can see the little rip in his sleeve Hancock had been teasing him about. He catches a peek of white-silver synthetic skin beneath, unmarred. 

“Listen, with the amount of weird shit I’ve had to accept is possible lately? Teleportation, deathclaw hand-to-hand—”

“Killing a Courser in a single shot,” Nick offers, smirking.

Deacon raises his beer. “I’ll drink to that!” He swallows down another gulp, leaving only a small sip left swirling in the bottom. “Anyway, disappearing holotapes would be par for the course.”

“You oughta be drinking to him,” Nick says. He nods a little toward the other couch when Deacon just blinks at him over the rim of his shades. Deacon glances over again. MacCready’s recovered from his laughing fit, though his face remains flushed. He’s leaning his shoulder into the couch cushion, his head lolling a little to the side. He’s got a sleepy sort of smile on his lips as he listens to whatever story Anthony’s telling. Deacon’s stomach does another one of those stupid flips that make him feel like a teenager. 

He’s probably drunker than he realized, because instead of something dismissive or unrelated or, you know, _not_ incriminating, he mumbles, “Believe me, I am.”

He at least has enough of a grip on his self-preservation left not to look up and see Nick’s expression. He looks to Nick’s left instead, out the arching window to the old brick building on the other side of the street, lit by the string lights below.

“Looks a lot more like moping to me,” Nick says.

Deacon narrows his eyes. He still doesn’t look at Nick, but he can see the smirk in his periphery anyway. 

“We’re about to go knocking on the Institute’s front door,” Deacon says. Even to his own ears, it sounds less like an explanation and more like an excuse.

“I think we’re proving that’s not nearly as insurmountable as everyone thought,” Nick says.

“The minute we let our guard down, the minute our confidence gets too high—”

“Yeah, yeah,” Nick says, without heat. “Give the old Railroad veteran the night off, why don’t you?”

Deacon sighs. The alcohol has made most of his feelings hazy around the edges, so he’s nearly forgotten his cheek, but it aches a little now. The stimpak knit it neatly into a scar. He could see it in one of the dirty windows they passed on the way here. It barely looked open at all. 

“I’ve just had a lot of experience with what happens when you start believing you’re a match for the Institute,” Deacon says. He draws the bottle back up and empties the last of it into his mouth as he tips his head back.

“I know,” Nick says, genuine now. “I’m just saying. Maybe there’s a little room for hope, this time.”

Deacon doesn’t answer. He looks across at Anthony again. He’s still quietly talking, his head swiveling back and forth to look from MacCready to Hancock. A little hope. Yeah, maybe. They’d never have known it was possible without Anthony. Never have thought to look where he did. They wouldn’t have had much of a chance of even reaching the right place to look, even if they did find it. Anthony’s turned everything around. For the Railroad, for the Minutemen, hell, for the whole damn Commonwealth. 

And they’re about to send him straight to hell.

Deacon leans forward, setting his bottle on the floor. Then he frowns at the holotape. He doesn’t know how all of this is going to work, _if_ it’s going to work. He doesn’t know if Anthony plans to take a team, beat down the door, and light the place up, or if he’s even considered it. He usually has more tact than that. But they have no way of knowing what waits for them on the other side. Not in detail. If anyone was going to ask Deacon’s opinion, he’d say take the careful approach, sneak in, even blend in, if that had any way of being possible. Anthony’s skills are more than suited to that. It’s just… the reality, the awful reality that they’re going to have to face sooner or later, is that he might walk in there and never walk back out. Is that a risk they really want to take with him?

It isn’t just that the Railroad could lose an agent, and a valuable one. It’s that that’s not the only thing at stake here. Not by a mile. Not like the usual risky business. The Minutemen could lose their general—the man who rebuilt them from dirt, made them something again. The settlements could lose their leader, their protector. Deacon’s sure even the Brotherhood would feel it, and might come storming through the city demanding answers. But more importantly than all of that?

Deacon watches Hancock nudge Anthony’s shoulder, and watches MacCready grin at him. And then he thinks of Garvey. He thinks of the way Garvey pulled Anthony into his arms the first time Deacon arrived in Sanctuary. He thinks of the way Garvey’s shoulders tensed when Anthony made some glib remark about near-death-by-deathclaw in the Glowing Sea. And finally, he thinks of a farm far away from here, of dark hair matted with blood. The scream it had pulled from his own lungs.

“Hey! No brooding in my office!” 

Deacon looks up. Hancock’s sloppily pointing a finger at him (or just slightly to the right of him), the rest of his hand still wrapped around his beer. Anthony and MacCready fall quiet and look over.

“This is a _celebration_,” Hancock says, drawing out the syllables and almost managing not to slur them. “You take that shit outside, or you leave the doom and gloom at the door and grab another drink and lighten the fuck up. Mayoral decree. Where’s Fahrenheit? Put that shit in writing.” He looks around at the closed office door.

Deacon huffs a laugh. “I was just—”

“I know what you were just. Put it away, man. We killed—sorry, _he_—” Hancock shoves his free hand out toward MacCready, nearly smacking Anthony’s nose again, “—killed a fucking Institute guard-bitch. Drink a goddamn beer.”

Deacon’s sluggish thoughts snag on what the hell “guard-bitch” means as Hancock stumbles to his feet. Deacon belatedly glances at the door, in case Hancock’s second actually had heard him bellowing for her, but the door stays shut. Then there’s an open bottle being shoved under his nose. Deacon blinks at it, and then up the arm holding it, to see Hancock looking at him expectantly. Deacon grins a little and takes it. 

“That’s what I thought,” Hancock says. He lifts his own beer into the air. “To Hotshot over here! Long may those eagle eyes… see good, I dunno. Fuck it. Cheers!” 

There’s a chorus of laughter, and they all raise their drinks. Except Nick, Deacon presumes, but before he can twist around to look, his gaze falls on MacCready as he knocks his beer back, baring the long line of his throat. He’s got a half-smile at the corners of his lips when he straightens again. He looks so good. So happy. He should always look like that.

Deacon takes one last look at the holotape. Then he tucks it carefully into his pocket.

\----

But he keeps thinking about it the whole long walk back to Sanctuary the next day. He thinks about it after they leave Hancock to his sloppy breakfast down in the bar, and as they wind through the side streets circling Diamond City to drop Nick at the gate. He thinks about it while they trade shots with super mutants through the trees outside Oberland, bullets splitting the late morning stillness. He thinks about it as they stop for lunch in Starlight, and as he stares up at the rising apartment complex at its heart, the glass walls of the top floor glittering in the sunlight. He thinks about it as they crest the hill beyond Concord, and follow the road that hugs Red Rocket. And when they finally reach the old bridge, he stops Anthony at the edge.

“Hey.” 

In two days’ time, Anthony will leave again for the Glowing Sea. He’ll retrace their steps, pick up Hancock in Goodneighbor, and head south again. Deacon had listened to the whole plan while he gulped down water at the bar this morning. It’s a risk on its own, walking into that hellhole again, even if they do know where they’re going this time. Deacon doesn’t know what Virgil will tell them. He doesn’t know if there’s some kind of device they’ll have to build, or somewhere they’ll have to go, or if he’ll just offer to magically send them right there in his cave, somehow. So Deacon needs to say something now. 

Anthony turns to look back at him. He shuffles to the side a little to let a passing provisioner’s brahmin by, and waits. Deacon swallows. He feels his pulse thump against the skin of his wrists.

“Listen, I… don’t know how all of this is going to work. Or what your plan is. But one way or another, we’re going to send someone into the—” he pauses, making sure the provisioner has passed well out of earshot, and no one else is strolling up the road behind them. “—Institute, right? Or maybe a team, I don’t know.”

“I think we’ll be lucky to get one person inside, and we don’t know what we’re facing. More people means more risk,” Anthony says, and Deacon’s quietly grateful they’ve been thinking along the same lines. “But yeah, that’s the goal, I assumed.”

Deacon nods, maybe a few too many times. He tries to stop himself from tapping his fingers against his palms. “So I’ve been thinking, and I… I think you should send me.”

Anthony stares at him. Gapes, really. Slowly, craning his neck forward like he can’t be sure he heard Deacon right, he tilts his head. Over Deacon’s shoulder, MacCready lets out a loud and sharp, “_What?_”

Deacon doesn’t look at him. He just keeps his eyes on Anthony. “It makes the most sense. I’ve been honing the skills to blend in and bullshit for decades. I know what we’re up against. But more than that, you’ve got the Minutemen, the settlements, the Brotherhood, and you’ve got—” 

His eyes dart across the creek. He can just barely see the peak of Anthony’s roof over the top of the guard wall. “You’ve got a lot waiting for you out here, if something goes wrong. I’ve got nothing to lose.” 

Deacon hears a choked off noise behind him. He finally glances back, and nearly gapes himself. MacCready’s staring at him, his eyes wide and blazing. He’s gritting his teeth so hard Deacon can see his jaw muscles pulled taut, and his face is turning a bright, angry red. He looks like he did the night he argued with Carrington. Deacon wants to look away, but he’s so startled he keeps staring back.

“Deacon,” Anthony finally says. “I… appreciate you trying to look out for me.” The words sound stilted, like he’s picking them out as he goes. “I know I’m putting a lot on the line here. But it’s my risk to take. I’m not asking anyone else to take it. I’m not _letting_ anyone else take it. Do you understand?” 

Deacon finally turns back. He opens his mouth to protest. “But you—”

“Deacon,” Anthony says again. It’s the General Voice, but soft at the edges. More quietly, Anthony says, “Everything I’ve built here, everything I’ve done? It’s to build a home, a safe place, for my son. I need to know where he is. I need to find him. I will not wait outside while someone else tries to do that for me.” 

Deacon slowly closes his mouth. It doesn’t feel right. But Anthony raises his chin once he finishes, and squares his shoulders. He thins his lips into a tight line. He looks like he’s making a wall of himself, stretching his chest wider and planting his feet. Deacon’s not going to win this argument. He still feels like he should try. 

But instead, he deflates a little. “If that’s… what you want.” 

Anthony’s mouth softens, moving closer to a smile. He nods. And then he turns, and steps onto the bridge, like that’s that. Deacon only makes it one step into following him before a hand snags his wrist, the grip startlingly strong. He jerks his head back around. 

“We need to talk,” MacCready says, low and firm. “_Now._”

He lets go of Deacon’s wrist and circles around him, marching onto the wood planks. Deacon’s heartrate kicks back up as he stumbles after.

\----

MacCready throws his pack down next to the front door. He slings his rifle onto its hook, ignoring the clatter it makes as it smacks the wall, and starts tugging angrily at the belt around his waist. Deacon’s in the middle of setting his own pack down by the couch when MacCready flings the belt down and lets it slap onto the floor. The binoculars bound to it thump down with it. That’s about as long as MacCready’s patience lasts before he gives up on his coat and rounds on Deacon, stalking between him and the front door.

“What the fuck was that about?” he says, in that same dangerous voice from earlier. His fists clench tightly at his sides.

Deacon knows what to do with MacCready’s annoyance. And his defiance. He doesn’t have a playbook for real anger. Not when it’s being flung at him like a Molotov cocktail and exploding at his feet, and he can’t figure out where to stand without getting singed.

So he straightens, eyeing MacCready uneasily from beneath his shades. “I thought about it a lot, and it seemed to make the most sense—”

“In what fucking way?” Okay, safety’s really off on the swearing. Deacon curls his toes in his sneakers to keep from stepping back as MacCready looms closer. He stands close enough that Deacon’s knuckles nearly smack into the duster when he folds his arms.

“I told you in what way. Why are you pissed that I don’t want him to risk everything he’s worked for?” Deacon furrows his brow.

“That’s not why I’m pissed,” MacCready snaps. His neck is blotching red again, and so are his ears. “This entire thing is fucked. This Virgil guy might be completely fucking us over. There’s no part of this that isn’t an instant death sentence if he is. And it’s bad enough to think about losing my best friend to that, instead I could lose my—” He stops, tearing his eyes away to glare at the counter behind Deacon. Every inch of Deacon’s body tenses as he waits for the end of that sentence. 

MacCready finally says, quieter, “Instead it might be you.” 

Deacon has to look at the floor. His voice wavers a little as he says, “Someone has to go. I’ve spent most of my life fighting them. Learning their tactics. And if they do kill me on sight, at least the Minutemen stay afloat and the Railroad keeps a good agent and the settlements—”

“Stop.” MacCready grits his teeth. “Just fucking stop. Why are you doing this?”

“Doing what?” 

“Acting like your life is worth less than his!” 

The words hit Deacon like a slap. They knock the air out of his lungs in one sharp breath. He barely manages to choke out, “Because it is.” 

“Not to me,” MacCready growls. 

“Bobby—” Deacon says, helpless, breathless. He drops his arms. His pulse is so loud in his ears. 

“You’ve got nothing to lose? Not a god damn thing?” MacCready says. He rips his hat off and throws it onto the couch. “I’ll show you what you have to lose, asshole.” 

His hand flies up to grab the back of Deacon’s neck. MacCready yanks him forward, hard, and then tilts his head, and— 

Oh sweet Jesus.

It’s a mess of a kiss. Their mouths crash together, hard enough that Deacon’s lips smash back against his teeth. MacCready’s stubble scratches Deacon’s chin, and Deacon’s nose jabs into MacCready’s cheek. Deacon’s sunglasses shove back, nose pads digging into the corners of his eyes. His hands flail, limp, at his sides. He nearly forgets how to breathe. 

But finally, he comes back to himself enough to lift his hands. He presses them into the loose bulk of the duster until they curl around MacCready’s waist. Deacon pushes back a little against the grip on his neck. Something hot shoots through his chest like lightning when MacCready’s hand just tightens in response. But Deacon wins himself enough space to shift his mouth, and slot their lips together properly.

MacCready breathes out sharply through his nose, and it fans hot across Deacon’s jaw. Deacon feels him tug on the sunglasses, trying to push them up without breaking the kiss. His boot knocks against Deacon’s sneaker as he steps between Deacon’s knees, close enough for the pouch strapped to his thigh to brush against Deacon’s jeans. Deacon wraps his arms tighter around MacCready’s back and pulls until that strap digs uncomfortably into his leg. He needs him that close. He needs, with a desperation that leaves him as breathless as the kiss, to feel the buttons of MacCready’s coat crushed into his stomach, and to feel the PipBoy pressed sharply against his shoulder, and to feel MacCready’s teeth nipping at the soft skin of his lower lip. He needs it to feel real. 

MacCready isn’t gentle. Deacon doesn’t want him to be. MacCready bites into the kiss, and his free hand bunches into the collar of Deacon’s flannel shirt. Deacon’s spent enough time staring at MacCready’s hands from the safety of his shades to know his nails are bitten down to the quick. But if they weren’t, Deacon thinks he might feel them pricking against his neck. The pressure is enough to send sparks down his arms anyway.

MacCready works Deacon’s mouth open, and Deacon lets him. He doesn’t even think to smother the needy little noise in the back of his throat until he feels a jerk of his collar in response. He’s dimly aware of moving, of the pressure of MacCready’s thighs and the squeeze of his fingers pushing Deacon where he wants him. But all Deacon finds it in himself to care about is the twist of MacCready’s tongue in his mouth, and the hot slide of his lips. God, why wasn’t this happening all the fucking time? 

And then his back hits something solid, knocking his brain back online. MacCready pulls back an inch. Deacon’s eyes snap open to see MacCready looking down, and then he hears a door handle turning. Deacon’s hand flies back to wrap around MacCready’s wrist as he realizes he’s up against MacCready’s bedroom door. 

MacCready’s eyes dart up to meet Deacon’s. He presses his lips, wet and swollen as they are, into an angry line and lets go of the doorknob. He pulls out of Deacon’s grip.

“MacCready—” Deacon says. His voice rasps in his throat. God, he shouldn’t do this. They shouldn’t do this. That kiss in the Church had haunted him for weeks, the memory of it writhing like a living, needy thing under his skin. And that was just a kiss. 

“Just” a kiss. That was a god damn earthquake, is what that was. Cracking the foundation of Deacon’s resolve into jagged pieces and making all of his walls split and founder. 

So this? This was going to leave him in ruins.

MacCready draws back, slowly letting go of Deacon’s neck. Deacon’s skin tingles with the phantom trail of his fingertips. He has to remind himself to drop his hands in return. 

“If you’re going to go, then go,” MacCready says. He sounds as choked and undone as Deacon feels. “I’m not going to stop you again. But you don’t get to walk away thinking this doesn’t mean anything.”

Deacon’s head jerks up off the door. “That it doesn’t—? You think that—that I don’t—” He splutters, and then he moves his hands up to fist into the lapels of MacCready’s coat. “That’s the fucking point, MacCready. It means _everything_.”

Deacon hauls him forward and kisses him again. He tilts his chin and catches MacCready’s lips gaping open, sliding their mouths desperately together. MacCready’s fingers scrabble around Deacon’s sides, and bury themselves in the flannel at his back, right underneath his shoulder blades. Deacon deepens the kiss the second MacCready opens for him, licking behind his teeth. MacCready shudders. Deacon feels another sharp exhale across his cheek, and then MacCready pulls back again, their lips separating with a soft click. 

“Please,” he says, voice nothing but breath. His eyes flutter open. The anger’s bled away, leaving something else, something that makes his pupils wide and dark. “Please, if you’re going to go, do it now. If we do this, you can’t take it back. You can’t pretend it didn’t happen.”

Deacon’s heart cracks in half. “That’s not what I—I wasn’t trying to—_fuck_.” He shuts his eyes, forces himself to take a breath, and then opens them again. “I never regretted that day. I didn’t leave because I wanted to pretend it didn’t happen.” 

“Could’ve fucking fooled me.” 

Deacon can feel his fingers starting to shake against the leather bunched between them. MacCready must feel it too, because his brow suddenly bends, his face softening out of its frown. 

Before he can fight the words back, swallow down the honesty that fractures them as they tumble out, Deacon whispers, “The only thing I ever regretted about that day was walking away.”

MacCready takes a shaky breath of his own. “Then don’t.” 

For a long moment, they just stare at one another. Deacon feels anticipation tightening in his stomach, the kind that used to come as he stood on the edge of that rubble that jutted out over the sea outside University Point. When his friends’ chant of “Jump! Jump! Jump!” behind him became a distant hum in his ears, smothered under the sound of his own breathing. His toes curled on the edge, and he felt the wind brushing his arms where he stretched them wide. And he hit that one moment, the infinite space between one breath and the next, right before he pushed off with the balls of his feet. Right before he leapt into the air. He feels it now, electric and silent, as they stand together. Then there’s a shift, a slow realization that every wall they’ve built between them is shattering to the ground. They don’t speak, they don’t move, but Deacon feels it, a split second when _touch nothing_ becomes _touch anything, touch everything_.

_Touch me._

MacCready tips his head forward, and Deacon meets him. He hears the doorknob turn again. This time, he doesn’t stop it.

\----

As the door shuts behind them, Deacon’s hands slide down to the buttons of MacCready’s coat. He doesn’t stop kissing him, just blindly fumbles the buttons loose and follows the line of it with his hands to push it off MacCready’s shoulders. MacCready releases his hold on Deacon’s shirt, and then Deacon feels an arm crooking between them. He hears a few soft clicks. Curious, he finally does pull away to look down, and he sees MacCready work the PipBoy off his wrist so he can pull the coat the rest of the way off. That crumples to the floor, and the PipBoy gets haphazardly tossed on a shelf behind the door. MacCready ducks his head to sling his scarf up and off. Then he unbuckles the pistol holsters under his arms. 

Deacon watches him work like he’s watching someone defuse a bomb. He shrinks back a little, hands hovering in front of him, and he fights down the urge to ask MacCready to warn him if he’s going to cut the wrong wire. 

When MacCready pulls the holsters away, he looks back at Deacon, then at Deacon’s hands. Then he shakes his head a little, steps forward, and leans up to kiss him again. Deacon sighs and sinks into it, a soothing heat flooding through the tightness in his chest. He finally reaches for one of the clasps on MacCready’s chest armor. 

He hears the soft shuffling and clipping sounds of MacCready working on the other side. It’s harder to pull it free when he can’t see what he’s doing, but MacCready has a point. Why would they stop kissing when they could just… not stop kissing? Because Christ, he wants to keep kissing. He wants to do it forever. He wants his mind filled with nothing else. He wants to feel only the slick warmth of MacCready’s tongue, the teasing scrape of the hair on his upper lip, every little shift of his jaw. God, this could be its own language, whole phrases of feeling mouthed against his skin.

The chest armor finally loosens, and they part long enough to work it free of MacCready’s shoulders. Then MacCready tugs him back again by the hem of his flannel. He licks along the seam of Deacon’s lips as he starts working the buttons open. His knuckles brush Deacon’s chest through the thin t-shirt underneath, and Deacon’s breathing stutters a little. MacCready pauses on the fourth button down, leaning back just far enough to glance up. A smug smile slowly spreads across those reddened lips. God, Deacon wants to _taste_ it. But before he can even move, fingertips press against the base of his throat, and that makes him go very, very still. They crook slowly, hooking into the collar of his t-shirt, and stretching it open down his sternum. MacCready leans forward and kisses the skin left bare there. His tongue darts out, curling wickedly into the dip of Deacon’s collarbone. Deacon chokes out a moan, and nearly has to grab for something to hold onto when he _feels_ MacCready smile again. He’s too lost in the feeling to notice MacCready’s other hand is still working until the flannel loosens and parts at his waist, and MacCready lets go of him to push it off. 

Deacon retaliates by sliding his fingers under the hem of MacCready’s favored green shirt. MacCready’s smile goes slack as Deacon’s fingertips find the trail of hair above his waistband and follow it up his ribs, dragging the shirt with them. He kisses along the underside of MacCready’s jaw, letting the stubble prick at his lips, and feels MacCready swallow heavily. Deacon lets the kisses turn wet and sloppy as the shirt bunches higher around his knuckles. He traces a nipple, feather-light, and it pebbles under his touch. MacCready moans low in his throat. Fuck, Deacon wants to hear that sound over and over. He leaves one last kiss under MacCready’s ear, and then angles away to pull the shirt off completely. He pulls his own over his head while he’s at it, taking the sunglasses with it.

Once that’s out of the way, MacCready smooths his hands over Deacon’s abdomen and around his sides. He bites his lip as he watches the path they take, his eyes bright and hungry. Deacon fights down a shiver. He can feel the calluses across MacCready’s palms, and the thick one on his right trigger finger, catching on the hills and valleys of Deacon’s ribs. They come to rest low on Deacon’s back. MacCready steps closer, and then his hands slide into the spot along Deacon’s spine where Deliverer usually rests. Deacon sucks in a sharp breath, the sense memory of the Diamond City side street striking him hard, and MacCready’s eyes flick up. 

“So it really wasn’t just me,” MacCready says, almost to himself. He doesn’t wait for Deacon to answer, just flattens his chest against Deacon’s and claims his lips again. 

Deacon toes out of his shoes as one kiss bleeds into another, in short glances of lips. His hands find MacCready’s shoulders, and god, it does something to him, to feel the sinewy curve of muscle under his palms. All that strength that held him upright when he could barely move, that took all his weight and never faltered. He has to tear out of the next kiss to gasp at the thought, his forehead pressing against MacCready’s. 

“It was never just you,” he says, breathless. MacCready’s eyes slide closed for a moment. Then his arms tighten, coaxing Deacon to turn. MacCready walks him backward towards the bed. He steals another kiss, short and sweet, and then he’s pushing Deacon back. Deacon obliges and drops down onto the edge of the bed. MacCready looks down at him. 

“You’re sure?” he says softly. 

Willing his hands not to shake, Deacon lifts them to rest on MacCready’s hips, just below his waistband. MacCready’s interest is obvious from here, tenting beneath the zipper of his pants, but Deacon doesn’t move for that just yet. He levers himself forward, pressing a soft kiss into the light scattering of hair over MacCready’s stomach. MacCready cups the back of his head.

“I want you,” Deacon says, his lips moving against MacCready’s skin. “God, I want you.” 

MacCready’s hands slide around to hold Deacon’s jaw. He bends to kiss him, a tender thing, and then straightens up again as Deacon’s hands drop to the belt of bullets buckled around his thigh. He watches, eyes lidded, as Deacon slips the prong free of the leather. He does the same with the one below it, and then the pouch on the other thigh. He works until there’s nothing left between them but a button and a zipper each. He slides a hand up MacCready’s inner thigh slowly. 

MacCready catches his wrist. “Lie back.” 

Deacon obeys, crawling backward until he sprawls in the center of the bed. MacCready climbs up over him and straddles his hips. He lays a hand on Deacon’s sternum again, and runs his fingers down Deacon’s chest, over his stomach, under his navel. His hand settles on the button of Deacon’s jeans. He’s still watching Deacon’s face. Deacon nods. MacCready slips the button free. Then he pulls the zipper down, biting his lip again as he does. Deacon wants to lean up and bite it for him. He could. He’s almost dizzy with the idea that he could. 

He props himself up on his elbows and watches as MacCready slides his waistband down, hooking his fingers in Deacon’s briefs and pulling those with it. Deacon’s cock juts above his hip, already hard, and he’d have some presence of mind and some blood flow left to be a little embarrassed about it if MacCready wasn’t looking at it like _that_. MacCready leaves Deacon’s pants partway down his thighs and reaches for his cock instead. He gives it a long, slow stroke, root to tip, and then his eyes snap up to Deacon’s again.

“Holy shit,” Deacon breathes. His fingers scrabble for purchase in the quilt underneath him and cling. Jesus, it was one stroke. 

But Deacon can’t actually remember how long it’s been since someone touched him like this. He fumbles for the last memory he has of it, and lands on a man with dark hair that bought him a drink in the Third Rail. Deacon was dressed as Sam that night, Goodneighbor alias number two. It ended in a back alley quick-and-dirty, pants open, clothes on, and then mumbled thanks. That was maybe a year ago. Maybe more. 

Don’t ask him to remember the last time being touched like this made him ache with want. Don’t ask him to remember the last time it actually made him feel as split open and laid bare as he feels now. 

Don’t ask him to remember the last time it mattered.

And suddenly Deacon needs, with a force that propels him up off his elbows, for MacCready to know that. He needs him to _feel_ that it’s true. MacCready’s starting to shift back and lean down, but Deacon sits up and catches him instead, palm pressing to the hinge of MacCready’s jaw, fingers spread around his ear and into his hair. Deacon pulls him into a hard, hungry kiss. He swallows down MacCready’s little noise of surprise and holds him there. MacCready’s hand leaves Deacon’s dick and clings to his shoulders instead. He kisses back eagerly.

It takes a minute before MacCready turns his head away to pant against Deacon’s ear. “Deacon...” 

It’s raspy, and needy, and it makes Deacon’s cock twitch between them. Which reminds Deacon that they’re kind of in the middle of something here. MacCready’s hand leaves his shoulder as Deacon turns to press an incongruously chaste kiss to the corner of his mouth. He feels MacCready turn a little in his lap, and his knuckles brush Deacon’s cock in a way that makes Deacon hiss. But he doesn’t linger, and Deacon looks down to find him unbuttoning his own pants and trying to push them out of the way. 

Deacon helps tug them down as far as he can. MacCready shifts backward, out of Deacon’s reach, to stand and strip them the rest of the way off. Then he leans over and pulls Deacon’s jeans down his legs, leaving them both bare at last. 

Deacon watches him crawl back up the bed. He takes in the smooth expanse of MacCready’s chest, dusted with gold-brown hair. The slope of his shoulders. The reddening skin of his neck. The storm-water blue eyes, fixed on Deacon’s. Watching him. Taking him in, too.

He plants himself in Deacon’s lap again, and Deacon wraps an arm around his back. His other hand strays to MacCready’s thigh. God, his thighs. The thick muscle of them, straining a little under Deacon’s fingers. How often has Deacon daydreamed about these thighs, looking at the belts buckled tight around them and thinking _you lucky bastards_. But that train of thought completely derails when he hears MacCready spit and then feels MacCready’s hand wrap around both their cocks.

His mind goes blank.

MacCready’s head tips back, his eyes squeezing shut as Deacon lets out a strangled moan. His arm tightens as he tries to hold himself steady through the frisson of pleasure that skates up his spine. MacCready strokes them both, slowly at first, but finding a rhythm fast enough to have Deacon panting. Deacon forces himself to keep his eyes open, to memorize the way MacCready’s moving—the tight little thrusts of his hips that he can’t seem to control, and the way his bicep tenses. Deacon bends to mouth a wet kiss on the long line of MacCready’s neck. And another. And another, down his throat, moving idly toward his shoulder. Deacon feels MacCready moan, feels it right against his lips.

He releases MacCready’s thigh to press a hand to the back of his neck, holding him still enough to suck a bruise into the skin. MacCready groans again, bucking a little into his own fist, dragging his cock against Deacon’s. As Deacon holds his neck, he feels his fingers brush against the short hair there. His hair. Deacon had imagined running his fingers through it more than he wants to admit, the way MacCready always did to smooth the hat line from it. So he reaches up and buries his hand against MacCready’s scalp. MacCready chokes out his name again, and Christ, Deacon is not going to last long if he keeps that up. 

He’s not going to last long, period, the way they’re both leaking and the way MacCready’s hand is twisting. It’s just this side of rough, faster now, and so fucking perfect. Deacon nips at his shoulder just to ride out a wave of delirious want, and nearly loses his mind when MacCready gasps out, “Harder.”

Deacon tightens his hand in MacCready’s hair and sinks his teeth into the meat of MacCready’s shoulder. MacCready cries out. “Fuck! Yes!”

Deacon sucks another bruise there, then runs his tongue over it to soothe the sting. He moans as he feels a callus dragging across his cock, pleasure hitching higher and flooding his arms with goosebumps. MacCready grabs blindly for Deacon’s shoulder, trying to keep his balance through the heady feeling of it, of them both together.

Deacon could think of a thousand stupid things to say about how they fit together, like they were built for each other. But they weren’t built for each other. They were serrated by circumstance and ripped jagged by grief, and time sanded down the edges into something new. It wasn’t that they were meant for this. It was that they found this in spite of everything else they were meant for. Found it and nudged it and pushed it, and each other, until somehow, the pieces fit. 

They weren’t built for this. They rebuilt themselves for this.

And that’s what does it, in the end, what makes him lose himself in MacCready’s skin and his hands and the perfect heat of them together. 

He cries out, coming messily between them, all over MacCready’s fingers. MacCready’s breath catches. His head strains forward against Deacon’s grip on his hair, and Deacon’s hand falls away, trailing down MacCready’s back to rest again on his thigh. MacCready’s face is flushed and his eyes are dark, so dark, and his hand works Deacon through the aftershocks as he tries desperately to follow.

“Yeah, Bobby, come on,” Deacon whispers, kissing the mark he left on MacCready’s shoulder. “Let me see you. God, you’re gorgeous.”

MacCready’s breath punches out of him. He strokes once, twice more, and Deacon feels his whole body tremble as he teeters on the edge. And then he collapses into Deacon’s arms, moaning his release against Deacon’s ear. Deacon holds him fast. MacCready’s hips thrust forward a few times on instinct before he finally loosens his grip. 

For a long moment, they just breathe against each other. Deacon holds MacCready to his chest, ignoring the mess between them, and pulls him down as he leans back to lay against the quilt. 

MacCready‘s head drops to his shoulder, their legs tangling together. MacCready’s chest presses into his with every breath. It makes Deacon think of the rooftop in Quincy. He’d held MacCready against him then, too, gasping for air, and thinking only “he’s alive, he’s alive, he’s _alive_.” He thinks it now, in time with MacCready’s heart beating against his. He turns his head, letting his lips brush the sweaty strands of MacCready’s hair. He draws his thumb over MacCready’s shoulder blade, and feels MacCready’s fingers trace aimlessly over his stomach in answer. 

_I think I could love you,_ Deacon thinks, and squeezes his eyes shut. _I think maybe I do_.

Oh god. He’s fucked. He’s completely fucked. 

Deacon fights down the telltale tightening in his chest, and threads his fingers into MacCready’s hair instead. He closes his eyes, and tries to float on the quiet as long as he can. 

\----

Finally MacCready shifts. He plants his palms on either side of Deacon’s shoulders and pushes himself up. Deacon’s hands slide off his back to rest around his sides. Deacon looks up at him hazily. MacCready looks back, starting to frown, then away, eyes cutting across the blanket. He climbs off of Deacon, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed and pulling the drawer of the nightstand open. 

Deacon watches the motions of his hands with a sinking feeling in his gut. Fear scratches and gnaws at the fading peace. MacCready pulls a rag out of the drawer and cleans his hand, then his stomach. Deacon looks away, staring up at the broken ceiling above him instead. Somehow, watching MacCready clean up feels awkwardly intimate, though why that should feel so different from moments ago, Deacon’s not sure. Or doesn’t know the right way to pin words to it. 

Without the shield of MacCready’s body to distract him, his thoughts start to spiral. MacCready was right. There is no going back from this. He knows, now, what it feels like. The memory is soaking into his skin with every kiss MacCready left there. He knows what those hands feel like clinging his shoulders. He knows the way MacCready’s skin feels under his teeth. He knows the sound of MacCready’s voice breaking with need. And he knows that it feels better than anything he’s ever felt to hold him after. How is he ever going to let go of this now?

“Here.” 

Deacon looks over again. MacCready tosses him the rag, and Deacon stretches a hand up to catch it. He sits up, sliding himself to the end of the bed. His foot lands on the thigh belt on the floor before he shifts. 

As he cleans up, he listens to MacCready rifle through the drawer again. He hears some shuffling, and then the strike of a match. He tosses the rag aside and glances back to catch MacCready lighting a cigarette. He lifts the box when he notices Deacon looking—an offer. Deacon shakes his head. MacCready tosses the pack back into the drawer and closes it with his hip. Deacon turns, scouting for his pants on the floor. He finds them crumpled not far from his foot, his briefs tangled up with them. He pulls them both back on.

When he looks back again, MacCready’s sitting back against the headboard, still naked, taking slow drags on the cigarette. He’s not looking at Deacon, but at the window, the yard outside rapidly growing dark as the sun sinks behind the trees. He looks... for all the world, he just looks sad.

“Are you all right?” Deacon asks, and then wishes he could kick himself. Stupid question.

MacCready’s eyes close for a moment, the only indication he gives that he heard Deacon at all. He’s quiet long enough that Deacon almost feels like he ought to stand, start collecting his clothes. Like he shouldn’t be here. Because he _shouldn’t_ be here. 

He’s shifting to push himself up when MacCready finally says, “I don’t get it.”

Deacon stills. “What?”

“I don’t get it,” MacCready says again. “I don’t get how you can touch me like that, and say all those things, and then act like it’s nothing, and tell me it isn’t worth the risk.”

Deacon turns around sharply. “I didn’t say that.”

“Yes you did.” MacCready frowns back at him. “In the Church. You said—“

“I said I didn’t think I could take the risk. Meaning the risk to your safety, not—”

“Is that any different?”

“I was trying to protect you.”

“From getting hurt? Like it’s not going to hurt me to watch you walk away again and then sacrifice yourself to get into the Institute?” MacCready takes a long drag, then taps the cigarette over the ashtray on the nightstand, his gaze piercing. “And anyway, I killed a Courser. You watched me do it.”

“I know that. But if I wasn’t—“

MacCready throws his hands up. “Come on, Deacon! We’ve had this conversation over and over.” He leans forward a little, bending one knee up to rest his elbow across. Smoke arches through the air around him. “Look, I know what they can do now. I saw it and I get it. I do. But you know what I think? I think it’s not the Institute you’re really afraid of. And I don’t think it’s just that you’re afraid for me. Not after all that. So what is it, Deacon? What are you actually so scared of?”

Deacon flinches back, as though a bucket of water had been thrown in his face. For a moment he just sits there, stunned, robbed of every word he’d been arming himself with.

Is he right? Deacon’s been pinning his fears on the Institute for so long. He’d built it up in his head, this invincible, invisible thing, the monster that sank its teeth into his life and tore it apart. And that wasn’t untrue. But the Institute wasn’t the reason he’d lost the only person that ever mattered as much as MacCready does now. It wasn’t the flashpoint of his fears, just the fuel that kept them burning.

Fuck.

“I need to tell you a story.” 

He’s almost startled to hear it come out of his mouth. He hears MacCready exhale, sees the smoke unfurl into the waning light as he turns his head toward the window.

“A true story?” MacCready says, tone caught somewhere between bitter and sincere. 

Deacon doesn’t look at him. “The only one.”

MacCready shifts. Deacon hears the lamp twist on, and suddenly the wall floods with light.

“I’m listening,” MacCready says.

Deacon bows his head. He curls his hands in his lap. “You remember when you said you thought I’d spent my life on a—god, what did you call it? ‘Moral crusade for good’?”

“Something like that.”

“Well, I didn’t.”

He hears MacCready shift again, and then take another drag. Deacon swallows. “When I was young, a hell of a long time ago, I was...” He searches for a word, and huffs out a hollow laugh when he lands on one. “Scum. I was a bigot. A very violent bigot. I ran with a gang in University Point.”

MacCready makes a sound, a weird sort of hum. Deacon glances over without raising his head.

“Just explains why you seemed so—when we were there, you were acting weird,” MacCready says. 

Deacon lets out another choked laugh. “I spent most of my childhood in that building we were in. The part that was swallowed by the sea? Used to be a library. Intact. Books, movies, all of it.”

“Oh,” MacCready says, eyes widening a little. 

“Yeah. But then I grew up. Joined a gang. We called ourselves the UP Deathclaws. Yeah, I know, stupid name.” He sighs, scrubbing a hand over his face. “For kicks, we’d terrorize anyone that we thought was a synth.”

MacCready sits up straighter. Deacon can feel his eyes.

“We kept egging each other on. Started with some property damage, graduated to some beat downs. Then, inevitably, a lynching. Our leader was convinced we’d finally found and killed a synth. Looking back… I’m not so sure.” 

He still remembers the knife-sharp smile on Hunter's lips. Hunter. The name was fate, he told them all, he was meant to hunt, and they were meant to follow. And Deacon did, because he was fifteen, sixteen, seventeen, and angry at his dad, and angry at the world, and wanted something beautiful to break under his fists. Synths were an easy thing to hate. And it was easy to let someone tell you what to hate. 

He still remembers the blood striping Hunter’s cheeks. The way he laughed as the halyard they stole from a beached sailboat tightened against the synth’s throat. They never asked his name. He struggled, and struggled, and Hunter laughed, and laughed. Deacon had vomited in the bushes and Hunter had slapped his back and laughed.

He shudders, and shakes his head again. “That one was enough for me. It was his eyes. The... bulging. It still—I still dream about it.” His jaw tightens. “So I turned my back on them. Broke all contact. They beat the shit out of me for it, but I got out. And I eventually became a farmer, if you can believe that.”

He hears a quiet breath, maybe something like a laugh, maybe not. He sighs. “Then I—I met someone. Barbara. She was... god, she just _was_.” He finally lifts his head. It’s almost dark outside, he can just make out the uneven shape of the planks on the guard wall beyond the old bushes. And he thinks of her, standing by the hedgerow outside their farmhouse as the sun set. That soft brown hair, catching in the breeze. How she turned back to look at him. “She had a smile like on those old magazine covers. And her eyes… She saw something in me I didn’t know was there. Being with her made me feel like the whole world had a chance. That one day we could climb out of this wreckage. She could do that to people.” He purses his lips. “I didn’t deserve her. I know that. But I married her, all the same.”

He’s aware of the silence, suddenly. MacCready’s gone still. Deacon keeps his eyes on the window, too afraid to look. “We were trying for kids, eking out a living. Then one day... it turns out, my Barbara? She was a synth.”

MacCready inhales sharply through his nose. Deacon looks down at his hands, limp in his lap. “She didn’t know it. I certainly didn’t. I don’t know how the Deathclaws found out.”

He takes a long, steadying breath. “They killed her. Held me down and made me watch as they shot her right in the head.”

Deacon stares at his palms. He almost thinks if he stares long enough, he’ll see the blood staining them still, caking in the cracked lines of his skin. “So I killed them. All of them. I don’t remember how. Just coming out of it covered in blood.” 

He rolls his fingers into fists to stop them from shaking. He shuts his eyes tight. He said it. For the first time since it happened, he said it aloud. He feels as though he’s torn something open in himself—like all of that flooded out of his chest and into the silence, leaving him suddenly hollow. His ribs ache. There’s no relief in it. 

He feels the mattress move behind him, and hears MacCready’s feet on the carpet. He sits down at Deacon’s side. Deacon barely keeps from jumping when a soft warmth envelopes his left fist. Deacon opens his eyes to see MacCready’s hand wrapped gently around his, cradling it, their wrists crossed. Deacon slowly loosens his fist. MacCready slides his thumb under Deacon’s fingers, coaxing them open until he can thread his own between them. Deacon’s breath catches. It takes him a moment to close his fingers over MacCready’s.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” MacCready asks softly. “In Diamond City, when I—”

“I know you have no reason to believe me, but I’ve never told anyone that story. Ever. Not even the Railroad. They recruited me when they found out my wife was a synth, and that I killed the people that killed her for it. But they had no idea I used to be one of them.”

Deacon drops his head again. After a moment, he whispers, “It’s all sort of a blur, the days after. I remember coming to in our field, and seeing the bodies. There was blood everywhere—my hands, my clothes. I remember burying her, and burning them. But that’s about it.”

MacCready’s fingers tighten around Deacon’s. He shifts closer until he’s pressed against Deacon’s side, a warm line from shoulder to hip. He places his other hand on top of their joined fingers. 

“I would’ve done the same,” he says quietly. Deacon can still feel his gaze, but can’t look away from their hands. “If someone had come for Lucy, or Duncan, like that... I wouldn’t have stopped until they were dead or I was.”

Deacon feels his eyes begin to sting. He closes them again, but feels a tear slide down his cheek anyway. “I can’t do it again. I can’t let someone else die because of who I am and what I’ve done. I can’t be the reason you never see your son again.” He tries to take a breath and it rattles through him. He rasps, “If she’d never met me, she’d be alive.”

“Hey, hey, you don’t know that,” MacCready says. The tears fall a little harder, and Deacon has to twist his lips to swallow back a sob. “They were looking for synths. They might’ve found her anyway. You can’t know.”

“They were looking because of me. That’s not a coincidence. She didn’t deserve to die. Hell, if anyone did, it was me. It should have been me. And now? The Institute, it’s—so much worse than that,” Deacon says. He looks up, the air cold against his wet cheeks. “So yeah, I’m scared. Of that. And I guess I’m... trying to protect us both.”

MacCready lifts his hand, and catches another tear with his thumb as he swipes it gently over Deacon’s cheek, the one without the scar. His tone is soft, but the words hit hard. “By stopping this from ever happening? You’re trying to protect something you won’t even let us have.” He studies Deacon for a moment, brow slowly bending in thought. Then it smoothes out, like he found what he was looking for. Quieter, he says, “You can’t lose me if you don’t have me at all, is that it?”

Deacon bites down on another sob, gritting his teeth. It’s true. He knows that. But it hurts, hearing it out loud. It’s going to hurt no matter what he does. Either he lives without this, takes the loneliness to know MacCready’s alive and off the Institute’s radar, or lets himself have it, and waits for the day he comes home to find him dead. 

After a moment, he chokes out, “I haven’t… let someone this close in a long time. I think—fuck, I think some part of me feels like—like it’s me. I’ve lost so many people since then, it has to be me, you know? Bringing it on, somehow.”

Deacon expects MacCready to protest again, but he just lowers his hand back into his lap. Finally, he says, “I think… I get it, maybe.” He looks away, across the sea of clothes strewn about the floor. “When Lucy died—when I made it out, I just ran until my legs gave out. I didn’t know where we were, or where to go. Duncan kept screaming and I just… had to keep running. And then I fell, and I couldn’t breathe, and I just laid there holding him and thinking, ‘It should have been me. Why wasn’t it me?’”

Deacon’s breath shudders out of him again. He tightens his fingers around MacCready’s.

“I lied to her,” MacCready says, voice scraping in his throat. “The whole time we were married. I told her I was a soldier. God I just…” He tilts his head back for a moment, then drops it again. “I wanted to be something she’d be proud of. She was so brave, so caring. And she was so much smarter than me. So much more of all of those things than me. I was just a piece of crap mercenary. She’s the one that deserved to make it out.” He sniffs, swiping the back of his free hand under his nose. “I had to keep going. I didn’t have a choice, I was all Duncan had. But all I could think was that it should’ve been her.”

MacCready lifts his head again. Deacon watches his throat work. “So when Duncan got sick, I felt like—like maybe it was a punishment.” He sighs, shaking his head. “I know it’s stupid, thinking his illness was about me. It wasn’t. It just happened because it happened. But I thought… I didn’t deserve to survive anyway, and now I was going to lose the only thing I had left to live for.”

He laughs a little, jagged and bitter. “I think I made that promise—to Duncan, about being a better person—because some part of me thought it would—“ He exhales sharply through his nose and shakes his head again. “This is so stupid. But I thought maybe—if I promised to clean up my act, the boils would just go away. He’d get better. Wasn’t like I didn’t take him to every doctor I could find in the Wasteland, but there weren’t any answers, and I just—”

He cuts himself off, frowning. “The point is—I know how something like that gets in your head. How it just—” He makes a vague gesture with his free hand. “Tears you apart. Tears at all the good things you have left. And you let it, because you feel like you don’t deserve them anyway.”

“Fuck,” Deacon whispers. MacCready looks at him, and Deacon feels an ache spreading through his chest again. “No one’s ever—ever said it like that, I—” He presses his lips together.

“I think,” MacCready says, looking somewhere in the vicinity of Deacon’s chest, “I think that things just happen. Good, bad, whatever. No matter who deserves what, or—or who’s earned what. And I think—“ He pauses, and sighs again, running his hand through his hair. “I’m not good at this crap. You’re the guy with all the words. I just—bad things are gonna happen, one way or another. I’m gonna get hurt, you’re gonna get hurt. And you can’t just… stop that from happening by giving up every good thing that comes your way because you might lose it.” 

He raises his eyes to meet Deacon’s. “This thing, you and me? This can be something good. And even if I only have it until tomorrow and even if I get hurt, I still want it.” He swallows. “It’s worth it.”

Deacon tries to breathe through the pressure in his chest. His heart pounds, blood beating through his arms and his legs to jerk them into motion. Demanding they move. Run. Run. _Run._

He doesn’t. “I honestly don’t know if I can survive losing someone I care about like that again.”

MacCready reaches for Deacon’s face with his free hand and strokes his thumb over Deacon’s cheek again. When he speaks, his voice is so gentle it hurts. “Are you gonna stop caring about me if we don’t do this?” 

Deacon shuts his eyes. He’d tried. He’d tried his damnedest. Tried to use distance and time to cut away his feelings, and it felt like trying to chop down a tree with a dull butter knife. And that was before he’d known how it felt to hold MacCready, feel MacCready’s skin against his, kiss his hair. Walking away now? It'll hurt like a son of a bitch. But at least MacCready could be safer, he wouldn’t be a target, wouldn’t— 

But would he be safer? Wasn’t he already a target, heading up security for the settlements, working with Anthony? Being a known traveling companion of a man making this much of a name for himself? And now Anthony was going into the Institute. They might as well paint a target on the back of every person that had ever met him. 

It was too late not to fall in love. It wasn’t going to evaporate because he walked away now. He could bury it and flee and plunge himself into work and it wasn’t going to stop existing, and he wasn’t going to feel better. He’d tried.

But still, if they did come for MacCready just because of Deacon?

He keeps pinballing around his head like that for a minute, and MacCready watches, thumb moving gently back and forth. He doesn’t ask again. He just waits for Deacon to climb out of the mire of his thoughts. Deacon slowly lifts his free hand to hold MacCready’s wrist. He doesn’t pull it away. 

“I need—time,” he says, finally. “I need to think about this. You’re not wrong. But I—“

_I’m so fucking scared._

MacCready nods slowly. “Okay.”

“Okay?” Deacon glances up, surprised.

“Yeah.”

Deacon frowns a little. “I’m not gonna ask you to wait. You deserve better than this. And if—”

MacCready cuts him off with a kiss. It’s soft, and brief, and he slides his thumb over Deacon’s cheekbone one more time when he pulls away. “Stop trying to talk me out of this. It’s not going to work.”

Deacon doesn’t know what to say to that. He stares at MacCready, helplessly in love with him, his eyes wet again. 

MacCready’s hand shifts back, curling around the base of Deacon’s head. He tugs Deacon into another kiss, and another. Deacon lets himself be pulled in, lets his thoughts fall slowly quiet beneath MacCready’s hands. He can have this, just for now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We did it folks. We fucking did it. Well, they fucking did it. You know what I mean. 
> 
> I don't have any notes this time. I'll see you all in June, but if you'd like to keep up with me in the mean time, you can find me on twitter @galaxiesgone and on tumblr @electricshoebox.


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The morning after. And Anthony returns, with plans.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have returned! Thank you all for your patience, moving took a ton out of me and work has also been stressful. If you missed it, I did post a little fun romantic one-shot set in the near future of this universe while I was on break, [By Any Other Name](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24529942). But I'm so glad I can finally give you all an update here. Hope you find it worth the wait!
> 
> Perpetual thanks to **serenityfails** for their beta work and for laughing at my dumb jokes.
> 
> Warnings for this chapter: Some canon-typical, non-graphic discussion of cannibalism; brief discussion of a relatively minor injury; brief mentions of corpses.

It’s past sunrise when Deacon wakes. His eyes open slowly, and fix on the lint-matted sheet crumpled in front of him. The pillow next to him dips in the center. He slides his fingers over it and finds it warm. He watches the mark of his hand slowly fade from the pillowcase, his lips pinching together. Then he closes his eyes again. Just a few more minutes of quiet. Just let him stay here a little longer.

In another room, water splashes. He can hear shuffling, and the short creak of the medicine cabinet door. He hears humming, too; it’s idle and quiet, a tune he knows, but not by name. For a long moment, he just listens. Other sounds, too, drift in from outside. Fluttering, like bird wings, somewhere above him. Crows nesting in the rafters, maybe. More birds chirp to each other further out into the woods, and a breeze nudges the tree branches together. It scatters the dried leaves clinging to the ground in the yard. They scrape across each other as they roll into the hedge. Deacon lays still, and listens.

He doesn’t get slow mornings. Not like this. He feels, oddly, like he’s stealing something. A moment out of a different life. He turns onto his back, tossing his arm across his eyes. How many of these moments is he going to let himself steal? 

He’d given himself last night to hold onto. He’d let MacCready pull him down again, and kiss a path from his lips to his ribs, lingering where the broken one had healed, the skin pale and clear. Then MacCready’s hands had slid down Deacon’s hips to grip his thighs, and hold them open. He’ll find bruises there when he looks, he thinks. Like a secret, he’ll carry the imprint of MacCready’s fingers on his skin; he’ll press them and remember the way MacCready held him down, to keep him from bucking into his mouth. God, his mouth. Deacon had lost himself in kissing that mouth after, mapping the strange geography of tongues and teeth and want and need. He’d gotten MacCready off like that in return, in the warm circle of his fist. And then Deacon had curled around his back, fitting his knees behind MacCready’s shins, and crossing his arm over MacCready’s chest like a sash. He’d pressed swollen, red lips to MacCready’s shoulder, not quite a kiss, and felt MacCready’s feet hook behind his ankles. 

But it’s morning now, the light burning away the easy shadows of the night. And this isn’t Deacon’s bed. This isn’t his room. And without the hazy warmth of MacCready’s back against it, Deacon’s chest feels scraped raw and sore. Like he’d dug the grief out of himself with a blunt shovel, cracking his own bones to reach it, all to drop it like a pile of dirt at MacCready’s feet. 

This life he’s chosen isn’t a life built for quiet mornings and lazy afternoons. Not a life built to keep them that way. Not a life built to share. No matter how much he wants it, and wants it, and wants it. 

He takes a long, heavy breath and pulls his arm away, letting it fall onto the bed beside him. _Bad things are gonna happen, one way or another_, MacCready said. _It’s worth it._ It feels too bold, to believe a thing like that. Like daring trouble to find them. And it will. Anthony’s walking into the Institute, shining a spotlight straight onto his life, and everyone in it. And yet, Deacon still wants all those words to be true. He’d had all his reasons, his arguments, packed in neat little rows. A whole wall of them. And one by one, MacCready had chipped and cracked at them until they crumbled from bricks of reason into pebble-shard excuses. For the first time in a very long time, Deacon doesn’t have a backup plan. He doesn’t have a plan at all. He doesn’t know what to _do_. 

Maybe… maybe down the road, if everything doesn’t collapse in on them the second Anthony disappears... 

Maybe. He can leave it there. He’s not going to solve this right now.

He pushes himself up, swinging around to sit on the edge of the bed. He drops his hand and starts searching the floor for his jeans. He spots them under the window, and reels them in with an outstretched toe. 

He glances idly around the room as he slides them over his knees. He hadn’t really bothered to look around much last night. He’d been a little busy. But now that he is, it strikes him that this looks like the most lived-in room in the house.

There’s a faded Grognak poster on the wall behind him, one corner ripped off. MacCready hadn’t quite managed to smooth the creases out of it. It hangs over an old dresser, the wood scratched on the edges. A few shelves line the wall across from the bed. The PipBoy still sits spread open on one of them. The rest hold weathered books, and a beaten-up cigarette carton with a _Big Boss_ logo fading on the side, and some ratty towels, folded unevenly. 

There’s an old desk tucked into the corner across from where Deacon sits. He feels something squeeze tight in his throat when his eyes fall on the chair pushed up against it. Deacon’s leather jacket is draped over the back, the one he’d made MacCready borrow weeks ago. He stands, and wanders a little closer, until he can run his hand along the collar. He hadn’t expected… 

Then he looks above the desk. There’s a bulletin board nailed to the wall, and every inch of it is covered in papers, pinned in haphazard rows. He squints, curious. They’re drawings, he realizes. Messy crayon drawings. Blobby faces with big, round eyes, and ball-fist hands jutting from square bodies. Yellow-scrawled suns shining on shabby little triangle roofs that slope higher than the houses squatting below them. Round, wobbly animals. Scribbled cars. Some splotches of color without shape at all. And then, in the very center, one tall, round-faced stick figure holding the toothpick fingers of a smaller one. Written above the two in blocky, leaning letters, is “Daddy + Duncan.” 

Deacon presses his mouth into the side of his fist. He stares at the drawing, at the square green shirt on the taller figure, the rectangle hat on its head. Two months ago, MacCready had watched every move Deacon made in his house. Afraid Deacon would steal his caps, he figured, or some other gold-plated valuable Deacon didn’t care about stashed away in his room. And maybe that was part of it. But it looks like nearly everything important to MacCready is in this room. On this wall. And that’s what he’d really been trying to protect. That Deacon’s jacket now sits among those things is… a lot.

MacCready shuffles back through the bedroom door just as Deacon feels his eyes starting to sting. MacCready’s rubbing a towel through his hair, with another wrapped tight around his waist. Deacon looks over, and MacCready pauses. He purses his lips, lowering his hand. He looks nervous.

“I knew you secretly had good taste in art,” Deacon says, forcing a smile. He sounds strained, even to his own ears. He realizes belatedly that he’s not wearing his shades, so there’s nothing to hide his watery eyes behind. Well, too late now.

MacCready gives him a fragile little smile in return. He combs his free hand through the wet strands of his hair, and says, “I keep them all. Even the ones that are just a scribble on the bottom of the letter. It just… tells me he’s still there, you know?”

He looks away, tossing the towel in his hand toward the edge of the bed. Deacon’s fingers twitch, and he has to slide them into his pockets to keep from reaching for MacCready. MacCready’s eyes track the movement, then drop away to the floor.

Deacon thinks of that moment against the door again. The silent shift of the space between them opening, mingling, and dissolving. The moment Deacon had stopped trying to hold up walls that were already collapsing anyway. 

He feels as though they’re stepping back, now, into the uncertain before. That space is yawning back open between them. But the want is still loud, still alive and fierce under Deacon’s skin. He curls his fingers into his palms as though that might hold it in.

“I think—” MacCready says quietly, after a moment, “I think I never—you know, decorated much, because I didn’t think of this place as mine. I wasn’t gonna stay. Just… get what I came for, and go back.” 

Deacon’s eyes dart out the open door, to the wall outside. He can’t see his own bedroom door from here. But god, he knows the feeling. His throat feels dry as he asks, “But not anymore?”

MacCready wets his lips. He turns his head a little toward Deacon, but doesn’t look at him. “I think we could make a home here. Start over. I think it could be good.” 

_We_. A home for Duncan, healthy and strong. A home for… the future. Deacon nods, and clears his throat. He rubs the back of his head. He needs to—fuck, he really needs to—

“I should clean up,” he blurts. “I, uh—”

“Yeah, sure,” MacCready says, squaring his shoulders a little. He waves a hand toward the bathroom. “I got two buckets. Water’s cold, but—”

“Thanks,” Deacon says. He leans down a little awkwardly to pick up his shoes, and his crumpled shirts. His sunglasses flop into his hand, tangled in the folds of his t-shirt. Then he straightens, and looks at MacCready, who’s finger-combing his hair again. 

“Do you—”

“I was—”

They both stop, and laugh a little sheepishly. MacCready flicks his hand, motioning for Deacon to continue. 

“Do you want some breakfast?” Deacon says. “We sorta skipped dinner. I could, um—I don’t know what you have, but I could—”

“Yeah,” MacCready says softly. “Yeah, if you’re making it.”

Deacon ducks his head a little, because he has to fight down a grin _hard_, and a little spark of pride with it. 

“I’ll just—” He points toward the bathroom.

“Yeah. I’ll get up some wood,” MacCready says, and then he looks up sharply. “For the stove!” 

That startles laugh out of Deacon. MacCready’s neck flushes as he mutters, “Shut up.” 

He flips Deacon the bird as Deacon turns to close the door behind him, still laughing. It feels a little like relief.

\---- 

There are bruises. Fingerprints in the meat of his thighs, like he thought. The mark of lips where his neck meets his shoulder, too. He wraps them under his clothes. But he can’t cover the one below his ear, tucked behind his jawbone. He doesn’t think he minds. He runs his fingers over it as he tilts his chin in the mirror, and presses in, just a little. It aches.

He goes into the kitchen with the ghost of that mark singing against his skin. He can already hear the wood crackling quietly under the iron of the stove. He pulls the fridge door open, and leans his head inside. It’s better stocked than he expected. There’s a mutfruit about to go off, and a couple tatoes with their skins starting to wrinkle. Leaning against the back wall sits a mirelurk egg. He pulls it all out onto the counter next to the stove, along with a few small onions. As he’s reaching for the drawer beneath the counter, he thinks about wandering down to the general store later to restock, and his hand actually freezes on the drawer handle. 

_Are you staying, Deacon?_

He swallows a little heavily. Anthony’s probably halfway to Starlight by now, late as the morning is dragging. Not much to do there but wait. Plenty of work waiting at HQ, because there’s always plenty of work waiting at HQ. Mercer still needs filling. He should really take advantage of Hancock leaving Goodneighbor again—and the lower risk of getting clocked through one of his disguises, now that Hancock knows his face—and get back to recruiting. Really, he should get on the road.

MacCready walks up the hall and into the kitchen just then, smothering a yawn with his fist. He’s traded the usual shredded pair of green pants for a shredded pair of jeans. A soft white t-shirt with a hole under the collar band stretches over his chest. He meets Deacon’s gaze and smiles.

Maybe a few days in town wouldn’t hurt.

Deacon forces himself to open the drawer, pushing a few utensils aside to reveal a cutting board. “If you had any exciting plans for the mirelurk egg in your fridge, speak now or forever enjoy this omelet I’m about to make you.”

MacCready laughs quietly. Deacon hears one of the stools behind the island scrape along the floor. “I don’t know, I thought maybe I’d hatch myself a pet.”

Deacon pauses in the middle of pulling a chopping knife out of another drawer and glances over his shoulder. “Well, Sugar Bombs it is, then.”

MacCready laughs again. “You know, contrary to popular belief, and by popular belief I mean _your_ belief, I can cook.”

“I’ll believe it when I see it,” Deacon says, and then remembers MacCready saying the same thing, when Deacon promised to cook for him. He smiles a little to himself as he splits the skin of an onion and begins slicing it into crescents. 

“I’m not out here making fancy tabos, but I can fry a frickin’ egg,” MacCready says.

Deacon sweeps the onions to the side with the knife. “Fancy what?”

“Tabos. Whatever they are. Those things you made.”

Deacon leans the heel of his hand into the counter, smothering a snort as his shoulders start to shake. “You mean tacos?”

“Yeah, those,” MacCready says. Deacon can feel the pout from across the island as he fails to hold in a bark of laughter. “Shut up! I don’t know what the fu—heck they’re called.” 

It takes Deacon a moment to stop laughing long enough to start chopping again. The sting of the onion finally hits his eyes, and he hisses. He drops the knife and pulls off his sunglasses, scrubbing his forearm across his face to dry it. “Damn onions,” he mutters. He tosses the sunglasses into the corner and tries to blink his vision clear.

“Where, um—” MacCready starts. Deacon hears him shifting on the stool. “Where did you really learn? To cook, I mean.”

Deacon purses his lips. There’s still that knee-jerk instinct in the back of his head: reach for a story, spin it out of orbit from the truth. He swallows the half-formed lie down before it can reach his tongue. MacCready already knows the worst of it, now. Deacon waits for the anxiety to come, to carve through his chest. It doesn’t. He finds himself strangely calm as he stares at the pile of onion slices next to his hand. 

“Barbara taught me,” he says to the pile, just loud enough for MacCready to hear. “She grew up on a farm. She was the one who knew the land. How to make things grow, you know. Tacos were… the first thing she taught me how to make.”

There’s a telling silence behind him. Deacon squares his shoulders, and then turns to look back. MacCready’s watching him with a kind of stunned expression on his face. Deacon knows he’s putting the pieces together. He can see it in the way those eyes dart over his face.

Deacon takes a breath, and says it aloud anyway. “It was the closest I could get. To telling you, after Diamond City.” 

The surprise softens MacCready’s face. Into something else. Something that finally does rouse the anxiety in Deacon’s stomach. He turns back around, and finishes slicing the half-moon onion on the board. 

The stool creaks behind him. A moment later, there’s a soft touch on his back, and MacCready at his side. An innocent touch, high up between his shoulder blades, just to get his attention. It still lights up the skin all across his back. Deacon can’t look at him. If he looks at him, he’s going to kiss him. Worse, he’s pretty sure MacCready would let him.

“Want some help?” is all MacCready says, though. His hand pulls away.

“I don’t know, do I?” Deacon teases, starting to smirk.

“I can cut a freaking tato, you jerk,” MacCready says, reaching around Deacon for the fruit in question. 

“All right, Chef MacCready, impress me,” Deacon says.

MacCready nudges him aside with his hip to fish another cutting board out of the drawer. Deacon risks lifting his head. MacCready cuts a look his way, exasperated, but Deacon catches the glint in his eye. He also catches the way MacCready’s eyes fall on the hinge of his jaw, on the bruise purpling the skin there. A proud little grin flashes across MacCready’s lips, there and gone. When he turns, Deacon catches sight of the answering bruise on MacCready’s throat. 

Right. Onions. Cutting them. He can do that. 

\----

“That’s not how I heard it.”

“All right. What did you hear, then?”

Weston leans forward over the table. He splits a deck of cards between his hands, tapping them even on the tabletop, and then lays them flat. Deacon watches them zip through his shriveled fingers as he shuffles them together. He cuts the deck, and shuffles them again. 

Three days had bled into four. Deacon’s going to leave. Tomorrow, probably. Maybe the day after. Things had just come up. Normal things. He’d needed Anne to patch another jacket for him, and that always takes a day or two. MacCready had guilted him into helping hammer the new expansion of the guard wall on the northeastern side of Sanctuary, opening it around a cleared patch of the woods for new shacks. Not enough hands to go around, between the guard shifts, he’d said, and Deacon’s a soft touch for helping out the little guy. That’s all. Honestly, another day or two and Anthony will be marching back through the gate anyway. At this rate, Deacon should really just wait, no point in leaving if—

“I heard it was a cannibal fog. Like, it eats people.”

—if he was going to miss conversations like this. He looks up sharply across the table, glass of whiskey halfway to his lips, as Moretti makes some kind of emphatic gesture with his hand to punctuate the wild ass thing that just came out of his mouth. He’s sitting next to Weston on the couch, while MacCready sits on Weston’s left in one of the armchairs, a cigarette between his fingers.

Weston pauses in the middle of dealing out the cards to look back at Moretti. “Okay, _first_ of all, if it was a cannibal fog, it would eat other fog. Which is by far the stupidest thing you have ever made me say to you.” 

MacCready starts laughing. Deacon catches his eye and flashes him a little grin. 

Moretti frowns. Pouts, really. “You know what I mean—”

“Second of all,” Weston continues over him, turning back to deal out the rest of the cards, “_how_? Tell me how, exactly, a weather condition is eating anything.” 

“I don’t know, man!” Moretti says. He frowns as he swipes his cards off the table. “I’m just telling you what I heard. Radiation’s nuts, who knows?” 

“I know. I know that that is not a real thing,” Weston says. Even in the grind of his voice, Deacon can hear the flat annoyance. “You really think that makes more sense than what I said? That there are cannibals living _in_ the fog?”

“Fine, maybe. Whatever. Torres would back me up,” Moretti says, slumping back into the couch cushions and staring at his cards. “The point is, you couldn’t pay me to go up to that crazy place. Bet everyone there got eaten by the _fucking_ fog.” He glares over at Weston, who ignores him.

“Well, someone had to survive to tell the tale, at least,” Deacon says. He tucks the jack of hearts next to the jack of spades in his hand. 

MacCready snorts next to him, pulling the cigarette away from his lips. “What a ringing endorsement. ‘Come to Far Harbor! Someone has to survive to tell the tale.’”

Weston smirks. “Maybe it was MacCready’s super mutant lovers.” 

“This fog eat humans!” Deacon says, dropping his voice. “We eat humans first! Stupid fog! Go find other food!” 

Laughter bubbles around the circle. They play through the hand, caps ringing as they clatter across the table into the betting pile. MacCready takes the pot in the end, slapping down a full house. Deacon tries not to look too long at the smug little grin he wears while he scoops the pile of caps toward him, the stub of the cigarette in the corner of his mouth.

“That’s some lucky streak you’re having lately, RJ.” 

Preston Garvey wanders over from the bar, beer bottle in hand. He’s got the hat on tonight, and the uniform. But even under the shadow of the hat’s brim, and the odd cast of white and purple and blue light from the bar, Deacon can see the exhaustion carving deep wells under his eyes. 

“Hey, Garvey,” Deacon says, flicking his nose toward the empty chair. “Come help us knock him down a few pegs.” 

“Preston’s fine,” Garvey says. Deacon nods.

“You’re just mad you haven’t won a single hand tonight,” MacCready says, stubbing out the cigarette in an ashtray on the corner of the table.

“Hey, maybe you know about this, sir,” Moretti starts, and Weston interrupts with a groan.

“Don’t drag him into this.” 

“Have you heard much about Far Harbor?” Moretti says, looking pointedly at Preston. Weston throws up his hands.

Preston slowly smiles around the rim of his bottle. “Is this about that rumor the guards keep whispering about? Evil fog, or something?”

“See? It _is_ the fog.” Moretti looks back at Weston, triumphant. 

“I don’t care how many people repeat it, the fog is not eating people. Dissolving them instantly from extreme radiation? Maybe. Hiding the monsters that actually are eating people? Way more likely,” Weston says, rolling his bloodshot eyes.

Preston swallows down his beer and shakes his head. “That’s not half as scary as the story I heard about the Red Death, anyway.” 

“The _what_?” Moretti nearly spits out his own beer, sitting bolt upright. 

“Oh, you didn’t hear that one?” Preston says. He’s fighting it down, but Deacon can see the faint hints of a smile in the bend of Preston’s lips. It makes Deacon a little glad to see it. “Come on, deal me in. I’ll tell you.” 

“Seriously. Never going to this place,” Moretti mumbles, shaking his head.

Preston sets his beer down on the edge of the table and pulls his cap purse out of his coat. “So, the way I heard it? There’s this giant monster out on the sea. Only comes out at night.” 

Deacon watches those tired eyes light up a little with amusement as he launches into the story. Moretti sinks further and further down into the couch as Preston talks. Deacon smiles to himself, and reaches for his cards. 

\----

Anthony comes back in the late afternoon two days later. Deacon sees him trudging up the street through MacCready’s living room window. He tosses the issue of _Astoundingly Awesome Tales_ he’d been flipping through onto the coffee table, the snarling alien on the front glaring up at him. He nudges the face away with the toe of his shoe, and then slides his feet back to the floor. 

Anthony drags himself down the sidewalk, his shoulders bowing a little under the weight of his pack. His hand lifts as he reaches his front stoop, but the door flies open before he can even reach for it. Preston barrels out, barefoot, bare-headed, and throws his arms around Anthony’s neck. Anthony sinks forward, hooking his chin over Preston’s shoulder. When he raises his arm to cling to Preston’s back, Deacon finally sees why his jacket is tied around his waist. There’s a long gash running down his bicep, angry-red even from a distance. He moves without wincing, at least, so not infected, and closed up by stimpaks. Anthony pulls Preston in tighter, and tilts his head to catch Preston’s lips in a warm kiss. Deacon swallows and looks away.

“Hey, Bobby,” he calls down the hall.

MacCready peers around the doorway of his little makeshift workshop, wiping oil from his fingers with a rag. Deacon keeps wondering what the room was when the house was whole. It’s not big enough to be a bedroom, and it’d make a cramped office, but a pretty large closet. Whatever it was, MacCready had shoehorned an old table inside and nailed some shelves to the wall, filling them with toolboxes and gun mods and old parts. Deacon had finally taken a longer look at it a few days ago, curious. MacCready had been fixing up a pair of pistols to replace the ones he usually carried, while Deacon pretended to read, and not to listen to the soft clinks and absent-minded humming along to the radio playing quietly on the top shelf. It was… really nice. 

“Anthony’s home,” Deacon says, clearing his throat a little, and his head. 

“Finally,” MacCready says, shoulders sagging a little with relief. He tosses the rag back into the room behind him. “Hancock too?”

“Didn’t see him,” Deacon says. “Just the boss man.”

“Should we—?” MacCready strolls toward the entrance to the hallway and points to the front door. 

Deacon glances back out the window in time to see Preston tugging Anthony inside by the hand. The corner of Deacon’s mouth tugs up a little. “Give them an hour.”

It ends up taking two. Preston comes knocking, and leads them down the street. They find Anthony in the dining room, once again hunched over the Commonwealth map that still splays across the table. One side of it is covered in what looks like blueprints. Anthony’s in a clean t-shirt, the gash splitting his skin from under the edge of his sleeve and down nearly to his elbow. 

“I know I’m making scars look cool, Bullseye, but it’s not a contest,” Deacon says as he follows MacCready to the edge of the table.

Anthony straightens, pulling a pencil from between his teeth and giving them a tired smile. “Yeah, well, tell that to the radscorp.”

MacCready grits his teeth and hisses in sympathy. Anthony looks between them for a moment, a thoughtful sort of gaze that makes Deacon intensely self-conscious. But Anthony doesn’t say anything, just rounds the table and pulls MacCready into a quick, tight hug. Then he moves to do the same with Deacon. It still catches Deacon off guard, that he’s somehow slotted himself in the “friends Anthony hugs” category. His hands hover a little awkwardly at Anthony’s sides before he finally pats Anthony’s back a few times.

“Stimpaks healed up the worst of it, but Weston took a look when I got in,” Anthony says when he lets go. He turns back to the table. As he turns, Deacon can see the scar is scabbed over, deep in the skin but not deep enough to have cut into the muscle. Anthony rubs his fingers over it absently. Preston, leaning on the wall next to him, follows the movement with his eyes and frowns a little. Still, he doesn’t seem nearly as tense as the last time Deacon stood in this room. Small victories, Deacon thinks.

“Everything good with you guys?” Anthony says. He glances between them again, and Deacon forces himself to keep his face still and expressionless. A quick flicker of his eyes shows MacCready just looks sort of confused, clearly not picking up on how pointed the look Anthony’s giving them is.

“Yeah, nothing exciting,” MacCready says. 

“So, that it?” Deacon asks quickly, jerking his elbow toward the blueprints. MacCready steps a little closer to the table’s edge, tilting his head to squint at them. Deacon ignores the way Anthony raises his eyebrow at him over MacCready’s head.

Anthony finally looks away. “Yeah, Virgil drew them. His, uh—his handwriting is a little hard to read—”

“‘Hard to read’?” MacCready leans closer to the tabletop, still squinting. “Is this even English?”

“He, uh, switched to capitals on the important stuff,” Anthony mumbles, pointing to a different part of the sketched machine. The lines of the sketch, at least, seem clear enough, if a little wobbly.

“I’m sure all that radiation isn’t doing his penmanship any favors,” Deacon says, chuckling. “I can’t imagine it’s doing his _anything_ any favors.” 

“Yeah,” Anthony says, shifting his shoulders a little. His expression goes pinched for a second and then smoothes, too quick for anyone else but Deacon to even notice. Huh. “Anyway, he called this thing a ‘signal interceptor.’ From what he said, it taps into the signal the Coursers use and then—off you go, I guess.” He looks up at Deacon. “That signal, by the way? You know what it is?” 

Deacon bends his brow and shakes his head a little. Anthony chuckles. He pushes off the back of the chair he’s been leaning on and wanders past the couches on the other side of the room. In the corner, there’s a radio softly piping Cole Porter into the room. Anthony leans over, and turns the dial until they hear tinkling piano keys instead. 

“Son of a bitch,” Deacon says, at the same time MacCready says, “That’s the Institute?!”

“I always wondered about that station,” Preston says. “I figured there was some Pre-War radio studio still broadcasting on loop, but I could never figure out where it could be.” 

“You actually looked into it?” Deacon turns, surprised.

Preston shrugs. “I didn’t go looking or anything, but I’ve traveled a lot. All over the place. And I’ve never seen another tower big enough to broadcast besides the Castle’s, Diamond City’s, and WRVR’s, and then one at a settlement northeast of here. But that one’s been dead for years.” 

Anthony strolls back to the table. “I guess this thing taps into that station somehow.” He folds his arms over the back of one of the chairs again. “So, now comes the hard part.”

Deacon snorts. “Yeah, tromping through the Glowing Sea to get the plans, total cakewalk.” He wrinkles his nose. “Actually I’ve always wondered: did you guys actually walk on cake? Was that a thing?”

“Yeah, sure,” Anthony says, rolling his eyes. “Best way to spend a Sunday afternoon.”

“I knew it.” 

“Why would you walk on it? Why wouldn’t you just eat it?” MacCready says, looking up in confusion. Preston huffs a laugh. MacCready glances between them all, and then looks away, his ears turning a little pink. Deacon has to fight down a smile.

“I’m just saying,” MacCready murmurs. “It looks really good on the posters.”

“_Anyway_,” Anthony says again, “I was going to say: now we have to build the damn thing. And find a place to do it.” He looks over his shoulder. “Which is where I was hoping you’d come in, babe.”

Preston straightens a little, stepping closer, as Anthony taps the map. He adds, “You know places around here I think even Deacon hasn’t heard of.”

Deacon frowns. “Hey, now—”

“And I know you handle the patrol reports. Maybe you could have the patrols start keeping an eye out, see if there’s somewhere kind of remote, or at least decently concealed. Somewhere we won’t attract a lot of attention, but we could still get materials through easily. Hell, if there’s somewhere nearby we might be able to get parts from, that’d be even better.” Anthony flicks his eyes up at Deacon. “And don’t worry, we’ll just tell them we’re trying to start a new settlement, need the parts for the build—”

“Actually,” Preston says, leaning down. He tugs the far right side of the map up to sit on the table. MacCready grabs the blueprints before they can slide off the edge and onto the floor as the map moves. Preston’s eyes roam over the jagged lines of the coast for a moment, and then he reaches for the pencil. He circles a spot just north and a little west of old Salem. 

“Got word of an old house over here not that long ago,” Preston says. “It’s pretty remote up there, no settlements we know of besides a fishing family up much further north. There’s some kind of factory or something right by it. Probably plenty we could take from the town, too. People don’t go up that way much.” 

“Isn’t that where the Witch Museum is?” MacCready says, suddenly straightening. His eyes widen a little, and he looks uneasy. 

“Yeah?” Anthony says, glancing up. “Is… that a problem?” 

“You—haven’t heard the rumors?” 

Anthony shrugs one shoulder. “I heard some people warn to stay away from it. I figured people were just spooked by the old animatronics or something. They always liked to play up the witch thing—”

“I don’t know what animal tonics are but there’s something really wrong with that place,” MacCready says. “The Gunners had some guys go missing there. When they sent another squad for recon, only the guy they left on watch outside made it back. He was incoherent, talking about a monster and a bloodbath.” 

Anthony crosses his arms. “RJ, don’t take this the wrong way, but that’s usually right up your alley, isn’t it?” 

MacCready looks away, flustered. “Yeah, I know, it’s just—I mean he really made it sound like—just, maybe let’s avoid it, that’s all I’m saying.” 

Deacon looks at him, curious. MacCready avoids his eyes, tugging the brim of his hat a little lower. 

Anthony tries to smother an amused little smirk. “Well, I wasn’t really planning to go knocking on the door or anything. But honestly, if it’s rumors like that keeping people away, I think that’s actually a benefit.” 

“Hmm,” Deacon says, nodding his head back and forth. “Yeah, actually, you have a point.” 

“Low traffic, lower chance of word getting out,” Anthony says. 

“I’m liking this more and more,” Deacon says. 

“Then I’d like for us to take a look at it. All of us,” he says, glancing around the table. “I’d like you two to weigh in on the usual, like Mercer, and I’d like Preston’s opinion too. What do you say? Couple days, rest up, head out?” 

“Sounds good, boss,” Deacon says. MacCready nods. 

“Good. Now, who’s up for a drink? Because I think I’ve fucking earned one.” 

\----

Deacon’s always been better at traveling alone. For a variety of reasons. A whole list, really, with subcategories and bullet points and everything. It’s a very long list. He’s had a very long time to make it.

He’d been thinking of that list when traveling with Anthony and MacCready and all the rest started becoming a thing. Because he knew, even then, that ensemble acts—or at least duets—played out one of two ways for guys like him: curtain calls, or compromise.

_Two roads diverged in a wood,_ wrote some poet once. Robert something. Robert. Of course it was a Robert. 

He glances over at the current Robert in question, Mr. Crux-of-the-Issue himself. They’re back at HQ, packed like Pre-War sardines in P. A. M.’s little tin can of a hidey-hole. P. A. M. herself is sitting on an old stool in the corner, her eyelight pulsing gently. Low Power Mode, or something. The signal interceptor blueprints are spread over the table where her terminal sits. Desdemona bends over them while Anthony and Preston wait to the side. Deacon leans on the railing at the back of the room. He smokes the cigarette MacCready had passed him a moment ago, right before resting his elbows next to Deacon’s and leaning there at his side. 

So, clearly betrayal hadn’t been the road worth worrying about.

“Worry” wasn’t even the right word, here. They’re long past the “worry” stage. The time to worry was before he fell in bed and in love and out of line with every carefully set boundary he had. (And to be fair, he _had_ worried about it before all that, and it’s not like that had accomplished anything.) But if he’s going to put a name on the _anxiety du jour_, it’s the lingering fear that people can look at the two of them and just… know.

When Deacon travels alone, he controls what people see of him. The clothes, the hair, sure, but—it’s also the posture, the voice, the walk. It’s the whole energy of his body: the way he carries it, the way he moves it, and the way he doesn’t. He slips in and out of shadows and costumes and masks, a one man show. He knows when and where and how to do it right, when to take the stage and when to take a bow. Fitting someone else in the act… complicates it. 

But it’s not just the travel, now. Yeah, it still makes him itchy, traveling in groups, but he’s getting used to it, making it work. No, it’s the way everything about him and MacCready has shifted. Even when the only promise between them is time. 

Deacon knows what it looks like. He’s clocked couples across a room before they’ve done so much as look at each other. There’s a magnetism to the bodies of lovers, a gravity all their own. It pulls them together, into each other’s space. The sort of unconscious comfort in closeness that only comes when you’ve stripped each other bare, when you’ve taken off clothes and taken down walls, and seen more of each other than anyone else ever has. You speak to each other in looks, in touches, in the way you lean close. And half the time? You don’t even know you’re doing it.

And that’s what scares him. If Anthony can fix them with a knowing look the first time they walk into his house together, and Carrington can glance between them when they walk down the stairs and roll his eyes, and Glory can see them just standing side by side and give Deacon a secret wink, then the Institute can figure it out too. Even when they’re not, technically, together. (Does it matter? Has it ever?) He tries to tell himself that Anthony already knew what happened in the Church, and heard MacCready demand they talk at the bridge. Carrington nearly got his head bitten off when MacCready got protective, and Glory had been there to see it. They already had pieces of the puzzle. They knew what to look for. Still, the fear clings, settles like a lead weight in his chest: if the Institute finds him, sees him with MacCready, sees the way his body turns, the way his hand flexes, fighting not to catch MacCready’s—

MacCready’s shoulder suddenly presses into Deacon’s, and Deacon nearly chokes on the drag he’s taking. He coughs to clear his throat as MacCready tilts his head to murmur, “What’s she so pissed off about?”

Deacon coughs again, his eyes watering. He blinks the blurry vision of Desdemona clear. He’s missed whatever conversation they’re having.

“Anthony calls that the ‘mom look’,” MacCready says. “I never had a mom, but I think I catch the drift.”

Deacon finally catches sight of her. He has to smother down a snort, or risk getting that look turned on him. Her mouth is set in a thin, tight line, her arms folded over her chest, one shoulder tilted a little. Deacon turns his head toward MacCready’s ear. “Yeah, that’s a textbook mom look. ‘I’m not _mad_, I’m just disappointed.’”

“What’s she got to be disappointed about?” MacCready says, taking a drag. “He got her a ticket in.”

Deacon has to remind himself to look back, distracted as he is watching MacCready’s lips wrap around his cigarette. Deacon says, “Good thing about Dez? She’ll let you know. She just wants you to spin your wheels explaining yourself first. Classic mom move.”

MacCready scoffs quietly. His shoulder still hovers close to Deacon’s, their elbows one little shift away from touching on the railing. 

The hardest part of all of this? Deacon still wants it. Despite the fear, and the risk. He wants MacCready to stand too close and touch too much and look too long. He wants to look right back.

“And you’ll be using your Minutemen to do the building?”

Yeah, okay, _really_ time to focus up, Deacon. Desdemona is looking at Anthony with her chin raised a little, her mouth still in that careful line. Anthony’s caught on, his posture tightening a little, shoulders moving back the way they had at Sanctuary’s bridge. Making a wall of himself. Deacon sees Preston shift next to him, straightening up and settling his hands on his hips.

“I’m handling who’s involved very carefully, if that’s what you’re asking,” Anthony says.

Desdemona looks at him for a moment. Deacon recognizes the look. She’s calculating her reply, picking and discarding words at lightning speed. One of the qualities that made her the best choice to lead the Railroad, really: she thinks before she speaks. 

“We’re walking forward together into something unprecedented, something that will change the course of the future, maybe for the entire Commonwealth. And I want to be sure our focus in this is still on the synths. They are the most important part of this mission. I need to know that you’re choosing people who share that sentiment, and will have the discretion they need to.”

Anthony frowns. “Have I not proven enough where my priorities lie?” 

“Of course. I’m not questioning _you_, I just want to be sure—”

“Then be sure,” Anthony says firmly. 

Desdemona shifts back. Deacon sees her brow bend, just a little. Anthony sighs, softening his voice as he says, “Desdemona, this mission means everything to me. This might be my only chance to find my son. It doesn’t get more personal than that. And I’m not about to jeopardize the relationships and alliances that got me that chance.”

Desdemona takes a breath. “I know. I trust your judgment. You just have to understand—you’ve only been with us long enough to see a fraction of the devastation the Institute can bring. And we brought it down on ourselves in the past because we weren’t careful enough, or discerning enough. It cost us dearly. And more than that, this is everything we’ve been fighting for since the Railroad started. It’s my job to protect that.” 

Anthony loosens his arms, letting them fall to his sides. “I’ll do everything I can to protect both our interests. You chose me. So trust me. I know what’s at stake.”

Desdemona slowly nods. Her expression doesn’t change, but she doesn’t argue further. She turns back to the blueprints. “You have the resources you need?”

“Preston says there’s a factory just across the street. We’re going to check it out, see if we can strip anything useful out of it. And there are other options, close by,” Anthony says. 

“All right,” she says, looking up again. “Be careful. Let me know what you find. P. A. M. can find us other locations, if this one doesn’t work out.”

“I’ll be in touch,” Anthony says. He and Preston move up the ramp, and Deacon and MacCready begin to stub out the ends of their cigarettes. 

“Deacon? A word?” 

Deacon pauses at the railing, and lets the others pass him. MacCready glances back over his shoulder, and Deacon just gives him a short nod, and then moves down the ramp to join Desdemona at the table. 

“This is the greatest risk we’ve ever taken,” she says, eyeing him as she pulls a pack of cigarettes from her back pocket.

“I know, Dez,” Deacon says, watching her slip a cigarette between her teeth and light it. She inhales, long and slow, and then pulls it away again. 

“You need to make sure we’re involved in every step of this. Don’t let him forget what this means for the synths,” she says. 

Deacon leans a hand against the table. “Dez, you know I don’t say this often. But I think he’s right. I think you should trust him.”

“He has a personal stake in this, yes, and that’s exactly what concerns me. One rash decision risks the entire operation,” Desdemona says. “I need to know he’ll make the right calls.” 

“He risked his men to clear Quincy for us,” Deacon says. “He risked his life to get those plans.”

“I know.” She nods, but still looks troubled. She smokes in silence for a moment.

“Look,” Deacon says, “think about it this way. The more this looks like a Minutemen op from the outside, the less attention it puts on us. Even if Anthony brings some of them in on this, if he sticks to the story about his son, people aren’t even going to think twice about whether the Railroad is involved.”

Desdemona studies him for a moment. “I just don’t want _him_ to forget the Railroad is involved.”

“He won’t,” Deacon says, with a confidence that surprises even him, a little.

“See that he doesn’t,” she says. 

Deacon purses his lips. He gives her a little salute. She exhales off to the side, and he feels her eyes as he walks all the way back up the ramp.

\----

“Well, I, for one, am shocked no one’s fighting us for this little patch of paradise.” 

Deacon perches on the edge of a giant hole in the cottage floor. It sinks well below the foundation, deep into a muddy pit he’s genuinely surprised a molerat or five isn’t bursting out of. The floor creaks a little ominously under the weight of his sneakers. He retreats backward toward the front door. 

Calling it a cottage is generous. It probably qualified as a cottage, once upon the Pre-War. Now, it looks more like a deathclaw cannonballed straight to hell through the top floor and took the roof and most of the walls with it. So you know, real homey. 

There’s an intact shed, at least, that’s already fitted with a workshop and a few scattered tools. More importantly, that one has a roof. 

“Yard’s pretty roomy,” Anthony says diplomatically, reaching out to lean on a broken beam sprouting from the remnants of the living room wall. It groans, and he jerks his hand back. 

“Pretty open, though.” MacCready climbs around a soggy sofa half-buried in rubble next to the house. He glances around the yard. Part of the highway rises above the horizon in the distance, and there’s a scattering of trees on the uneven hills behind the house, a pale imitation of a forest. Poor sightlines from the ground, and a little too good from above. Deacon can read that thought in the frown MacCready turns back toward Anthony. 

“But if we put up some walls?” Preston points to the sharp ridge behind the house, riddled with boulders. “They’ll sit pretty high.”

“They’ll have to, with the measurements on this thing,” Deacon says, gesturing to Anthony’s pack, where the blueprints have been rolled up and tucked in. He looks over his shoulder, out the frame of the front door and over the porch. “Might get a little tricky to keep them even with all the rocks.”

“Easier if we just knock this whole thing down,” Anthony says, looking up at the shallow shell of the second floor.

Deacon snorts. “But it’s so sturdy and picturesque!” 

Anthony rolls his eyes. “Come on. Let’s take a look at that plant across the street. That should probably be the deciding factor.”

It really is a quiet stretch of the coast. Usually, they’d have heard the distant buzzing of bloatfly wings from the woods by now, or maybe caught a few radstags weaving between the trunks. But the trees stand stubbornly still, barely rattled by the breeze drifting in off the sea. 

Even the beach seems strangely silent. Deacon looks back at the old picnic area a little up the road as they climb down the cottage driveway, expecting mirelurk egg nests to dot the sand between the picnic tables, or mirelurks themselves weaving through the cars rusting below the dunes. But all that greets him is sea grass, waving gently when the wind combs through it, and a few old coolers left behind on the tables. Deacon frowns to himself, an uneasy feeling crawling into the pit of his stomach. 

He brings up the rear as they cross an old service bridge. Pieces of the road have plunged into the water below, exposing the metal frame. He eyes the old semi truck sitting part of the way across as he hugs the other edge, picking his way over the broken spots. 

A thick stone wall borders the outer yard. Around the edge on the far left, Deacon sees a few strange-looking domes, with a service walkway curving around them and then snaking up to the roof. Inert smoke stacks rise high into the air, white and sun-baked red. Below them, jutting above the yard, Deacon can see the tops of a few threadbare awnings stretched between thin poles, and the upper halves of a few shipping containers. He’d seen it all from a distance, but the awnings take his attention now, as the spiked ends of the poles come into view. 

“Raiders,” Preston whispers. Anthony stills. MacCready lifts his rifle scope, scanning it back and forth across the roof, and what walkways they can see from where they crouch, near the back of the semi. He lowers it and shakes his head. Anthony motions Deacon and MacCready around the side of the wall, while he and Preston creep toward the open gate. Deacon plucks Deliverer from under his pack and lets MacCready lead the way. 

They follow the perimeter of the wall, and wait for a moment where it ends, keeping low and listening. No voices come, no gunfire, no footsteps. Not even the smaller whispers of life, like the pop of a campfire or the clang of dishes. All Deacon can hear are the awnings pulling at their fastenings with the breeze, and shivering as it passes. MacCready takes a breath, and then carefully shoulders around the corner. 

Two red, rusty doors climb the wall at the main entrance, with a smaller pair of doors to the side. There’s a low little trailer of a building to the right before the building stretches back into a small shipyard. Deacon glances at the outer yard. Anthony and Preston are still carefully checking around the containers, but Anthony shakes his head when he catches Deacon looking. Deacon follows MacCready up to the entrance, peering around the sides. Nothing moves. No one comes. They rejoin Anthony and Preston in the yard.

It had been a raider camp, at some point. That much is clear. There’s a tent pitched to one side, and a few walkways improvised out of old boards cross between a few of the shipping containers. The remains of a campfire still slump in the middle of the road, ringed with empty tin cans and a few beer bottles. 

“We found a couple of bodies back that way,” Anthony says, jerking his thumb over his shoulder. “Pretty stiff, but still decomposing. Raider clothes.” 

“So what killed them?” MacCready murmurs, lifting his scope to scan the roof again. 

Something catches Deacon’s eye on the edge of the tent tarp. He bends over, catching the fabric where it ripples in the wind. It’s singed. He furrows his brow and looks down. More scorch marks are burned into the concrete to the side of the tent. 

“Deacon?” Anthony says. Deacon looks up to find Anthony eyeing him.

Deacon turns his head toward Preston. “Were there any rumors of… I don’t know, tech or special documents or anything in this place?”

“Not that got back to me.” Preston shrugs. “Didn’t even know what it was for until I saw the sign.”

Deacon turns his head. White paint above the big red doors names the plant Mahkra Fishpacking.

“Fish?” he says, narrowing his eyes in confusion.

“Explains the shipyard. Why, what were you thinking?” Anthony says.

Deacon drops the tarp and straightens. He points to the ground. “Laser scorches. I just wondered if the Brotherhood might’ve been through. They like laser weapons and hate raiders, right?”

“What would they want with a bunch of fish, though?” MacCready says. 

Deacon shrugs. That uneasy feeling is starting to churn in his gut. “Hungry?” 

MacCready wrinkles his nose. “Nobody’s _that_ hungry.”

“If they found any terminals, they’ll have wiped them and left their signature,” Anthony says. “That’ll tell us for sure.”

“After you then, boss,” Deacon says. He sweeps a hand to the side.

They climb carefully up to the entrance, and flank it on either side. They all wait, listening again. Then Anthony yanks the door open, and MacCready swings around into the opening, aiming inside. 

“Holy sh—crap.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Deacon is so gone for Mac, y'all.
> 
> 1) I know travel is tricky but I feel like _some_ rumors of Far Harbor have to have reached the mainland. But I also imagine them to be suitably "telephone game" levels of ridiculous.
> 
> 2) Yes, Anthony being cagey about Virgil is intentional. I don't know if it will come back up or not. 
> 
> 3) Writing MacCready not understanding Old World turns of phrase is my new favorite hobby and headcanon. No one @ me. 
> 
> 4) I will never miss an opportunity to dunk on Coastal Cottage because it's some real bullshit that you cannot knock down that piece of crap house. But it's even more bullshit that you can't even demolish that trash pile with a couch in it. What the fuck. So this is my world now and it's all getting bulldozed.
> 
> ETA: Almost forgot!! I threw in that Big Boss cigarette box for the Fallout 3 fans. And it kinda made me smile to think of a MacCready carrying a beatup box of valuables with him to the Commonwealth.
> 
> Chapter 19 is finished, and will go up as soon as I've got a draft for Chapter 20. You can find me on tumblr @electricshoebox and on twitter @galaxiesgone. Stay well and safe!


	19. Chapter 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The boys sweep the plant, finding a little more than they bargained for. Plans are made.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! I finally wrestled the next chapter into submission, so this one can go up. Also I finally polished off the playlist for this fic that a few people asked about! The tumblr post is [over here](https://electricshoebox.tumblr.com/post/622001375639961600/a-line-in-the-sand-music-to-read-the) if you want to see the graphics and significant lyrics, and you can listen on spotify [over here.](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/3kA55PxIWV1epyA3AGLqN3?si=JVs3IjD7SWSqV20-KDDcqw) My thanks as always to **serenityfails** for betaing. Their editing comments are the highlight of writing sometimes.
> 
> Warnings for this chapter: Some description of corpses throughout the first half.

“Holy sh—crap.”

Deacon tenses, his fingers tightening on Deliverer’s grip, as he watches MacCready frown into the dim light beyond the doorway. He lowers his scope a little, and Deacon can see him squint. Then he takes a few careful steps forward, rifle still at the ready, and disappears inside. Nothing breaks the silence but the muted shuffle of his boots, which Deacon hears following the line of the door on the other side. No shots crack the air, and no shouts. Deacon looks across at Anthony, who frowns back, but then cautiously swings himself into the opening. Deacon follows, and Preston takes up behind him. 

The smell hits Deacon first, sharp and rancid. He muffles a curse into the curve of his arm. It takes a moment for his watering eyes to adjust to the light as he stumbles further in. Beside him, MacCready coughs and groans a little. 

“Deacon,” Preston chokes out, “you got any gas masks in that portable costume shop of yours?”

Deacon rolls his arm high enough to free his mouth. “Alas, they’re not usually in fashion this time of year.” 

As Preston chuckles, Deacon tries to study the room. It looks like just about every other factory floor or industrial plant he’s ever found himself stumbling into. Concrete floors, cracked with age and fallen rubble. Metal columns, brightly painted, jutting up into the piping that spider-webs across the ceiling. Rickety walkways looping just below, a makeshift second floor. Crates stacked in haphazard piles all around the room. Less machinery than he usually sees, but then again, a big, rust-eaten truck parked in front of them cuts off most of his view of the room beyond. The rest is obscured by a wall of sandbags, and by the limp corpse draped over the railing of the adjacent stairway. It’s not the only one.

The body is dressed in typical raider clothing, face slack with rot. A laser burn slashes through the sleeve of the leather jacket, and another across the torso. Dried blood cakes the railing, and the stairs beneath the sagging boots. Looking up, Deacon can see two more on the walkways above them.

“Jesus,” he says, wincing a little. He creeps closer to the first. He tries to breathe through his mouth as he leans to examine the burns. Definitely laser shots, singing through to the skin. He’d expect Brotherhood shots to look more precise, but they’d gotten the job done, one way or another. Deacon glances up at the walkway again. Faint, dark marks cross the paint on the railing, and on the columns, near the other bodies.

Anthony steps up next to him. “I see what you mean about the burns.” 

Deacon nods, flicking a finger toward the columns. “Definitely a shootout.” 

Anthony cranes his neck to look up the staircase. “Looks like offices up there, maybe. Let me and Preston check for terminals, see what we’re dealing with. You and RJ sweep the ground floor, just to be sure.”

Deacon rounds the side of the truck a minute later with MacCready at his heels. It’s quiet enough that they can hear the soft footfalls of the others climbing above them echoing off the ceiling. They tiptoe down the length of the truck, stopping when they reach a wide platform boxed in by a railing. The room sweeps out behind it, turning sharply out to the right, out of reach of the dim ceiling lights. They wait a moment, but still nothing moves. Exchanging a look with MacCready, Deacon nods toward the left side of the room, and the two of them split up without a word. 

Deacon circles around the railing and does a careful sweep of the corner beyond the columns, then the shelves sitting across from the platform. Another pair of bodies wait there, fallen across some overturned containers. The rotten odor strikes him again, stronger this time, and he reels back as he crooks his arm back over his nose. As he stumbles, his foot sends an odd piece of plastic skidding across the concrete. He turns, watching it collide with a pile of crumpled paper and send dust mites puffing into the air. The plastic piece is a dirty white, vaguely rectangular but curved, and thin. He scans the machinery on the wall behind it, then each of the crates, but nothing looks as though it’s missing a piece. 

“Find anything?”

MacCready comes to a stop on the other side of the elevator platform, leaning his arms on the railing. Deacon looks back, dropping his arm and moving toward the railing on his side. He shakes his head. They both look down the perimeter, their eyes falling on the glowing red button on the end at the same time. They look back up at each other.

MacCready’s hand grabs for the walkie-talkie at his belt. Then he pauses, glances around and again, and just tilts his head back. “Hey, Anthony?”

It takes a moment, but Anthony finally emerges on the walkway above them. “Anything good?”

Deacon points to the red button. “Dare me to press it?” 

Anthony frowns. “Hm. So there’s a basement. We should check it, but… please be careful.”

Deacon heaves an exaggerated sigh. “Well, there go my plans to backflip off this thing into a rotting pile of fish. Killjoy.”

“I’d pay some good caps to see you throw your back out halfway, old man,” MacCready says, rolling his eyes. He leans back again. “Anything up there?” 

“Whole lot of papers thrown around everywhere, and a couple more bodies,” Anthony says. “Just found a terminal when you called. There’s a roof hatch down the way, so Preston’s checking up there.” 

“We’ll radio if we find anything,” MacCready says. 

“If it’s a rotting pile of fish, don’t bother.” 

Deacon smirks and salutes as Anthony turns back into the office. He circles around to the opening in the railing that leads onto the platform and gingerly pushes on the grating with the toe of his shoe. It creaks a little, but holds. He peers down through the holes, but little greets him below besides a faint light. He listens, leaning his ear down, but hears nothing but the distant hum of old machines. So he stands, and then steps his full weight down onto the platform. It creaks again, but quietly.

He looks up at MacCready, then darts his eyes toward the button. “Come on. You know you want to.” 

MacCready rolls his eyes again, but follows Deacon onto the platform. 

\----

The elevator lands against the concrete with a hard thud that echoes back up the shaft, and throws up another cloud of dust. MacCready and Deacon both freeze, weapons drawn. The room the platform opens out into is dark, but a bright light pours in from a doorway to the left. Deacon studies what he can see, looking for movement. More shelves greet him, a long row of them, lined with cardboard boxes. A conveyor belt twists off to the left with a console standing sentinel next to it, inert and dark. He can see some faint light behind the shelves, and another pair of doors in the corner, closed this time. No shadows cross the light. No sound comes.

Deacon takes a few cautious steps, holding Deliverer out from his chest with both hands. He hears the shuffling of MacCready following behind. 

The room next door houses the rest of the conveyor belt, curving off further beyond the wall. He sees a drafting table and some broken stools, and some kind of control room divided off to the side. The rotten smell still hangs potent in the air, but not nearly as heavy, tinged more with the musk of the sea than with the smell of death. 

He lowers Deliverer a little and steps closer to the conveyor belt, squinting at it. “I don’t know much about machinery, but some of this stuff will probably come in handy, right? At least they could take the circuits out of that panel, or—”

Deacon cuts himself off as he suddenly hears a faint, rhythmic tapping noise coming from the next room. It’s slow, and even, not the rubber soles of shoes, but almost mechanical. And it’s growing louder, and louder. 

“What is it?” MacCready says, furrowing his brow as he watches Deacon’s face. 

Deacon turns his head just enough to see the doorway in his periphery. He gets one flashing glimpse of white, bobbing into view. 

Synths. Oh for fuck’s _sake_.

MacCready gets one word into another question before Deacon clamps a hand over his mouth and hauls them both behind the stock shelves. It’s stacked mercifully high with boxes that Deacon keeps at his back. MacCready collides with his chest, grunting against Deacon’s hand, his rifle still clutched awkwardly in front of him. Deacon ducks his chin and shushes him, right against his ear. That, at least, gets MacCready to stop squirming. 

The mechanical click of the synth’s feet carries in from the next room, drawing slowly closer. It moves along the shelves, slowly and steadily, and stops level with the edge, where Deacon and MacCready wait. Deacon tightens his arm in warning. He can feel MacCready’s back pulsing against his chest in tight, shallow breaths, out of sync with Deacon’s own muffled breathing, but he keeps otherwise still. 

Deacon counts the seconds, his heartbeat pounding wildly in his ears. He keeps Deliverer lifted in his free hand, his finger sliding into place on the trigger. The synth stays still, but Deacon still hears the slight clicking noises of its arms, and its head, as it probably swivels around to look through the shadows. 

Finally, the footsteps begin to retreat, tapping back toward the other room. Deacon chances tilting his head around the edge of the shelving. It’s a Gen-1 synth, carrying a laser rifle, from the way it’s keeping its arms bent. But what makes Deacon narrow his eyes a little is the way the usual white plastic plating ends in a jagged edge on one side of its chest, leaving the wires crossing and threading around the other side exposed. Grey skid marks scuff the plating on one leg, and across one shoulder. As it slowly turns at the control room, Deacon catches a glimpse of its face. One eyelight is exposed, more wiring twisting down around the side of its face, and disappearing beneath the cracked plastic of its jaw. Hmm.

MacCready shoves free of Deacon’s hand, yanking his attention back. Deacon drops his arm as MacCready stumbles back from him, panting, and glaring. 

“The heck was that?” he whispers sharply. “Why didn’t you just shoot?” 

Deacon straightens, casting another uneasy glance over his shoulder. “Because you always, _always_ assume there’s a Courser with them. At the least, a hell of a lot more synths where that one came from. They’re never alone.”

He turns back. MacCready looks ready to argue, and starts to open his mouth, but then he pauses. A moment passes, and then he breathes out and looks around the side of the shelves, checking the room as Deacon had. “All right. What’s the plan?” 

Deacon’s eyebrows lift. “That’s… it?” 

MacCready twists his lips and doesn’t meet Deacon’s eyes. “Yes, that’s it, don’t sound so — anyway, you’re the synth expert here, just… tell me what you want to do.” 

Deacon needs a minute with this, though. The sunglasses are probably doing little to hide the staring. MacCready always argues with him about his plans. Always. Even when the plan involves saving his life from bloodthirsty Gunners in Diamond City. Or sitting on the couch rather than spending a sticky afternoon hammering on a wall. He never just yields, just trusts that— 

Just trusts.

“Deacon?” 

Deacon clears his throat. MacCready’s expression goes softer. God, Deacon’s going to be spinning his wheels about this one for a while. MacCready trusts him. The man who wouldn’t trust the sky is blue without seeing it for himself trusts Deacon, the man who wouldn’t tell the truth unless his life depended on it. Or his heart. 

“Yeah, sorry,” he chokes out, trying to blink his thoughts back into shapes he understands. “Right, uh — it’s probably patrolling, that synth, and there’s no way that’s the only one, so this place is bigger than it looks.” 

“Yeah, figured that much,” MacCready says. He kneels, checking the clip of his rifle. “So there’s more, and possibly a Courser.” 

Deacon watches his hands work, mesmerized. “Yeah, definitely more, but I think we might—”

The radio at MacCready’s belt blares to life. “RJ, you read me?” 

It’s loud. Too loud. It fills the storage room they stand in, and Deacon hears it bounce off the walls in the next room, and then out behind him. Which makes him realize there’s a second conveyor belt behind them, opening narrowly into yet another room, and reminds him of the pair of doors there he hopes against hope are locked. He tenses, lifting Deliverer, and MacCready stands quickly and throws himself back against the shelves at Deacon’s side. Deacon hears rustling as MacCready fumbles for the walkie.

“Boss, we got company,” he hisses into it. Deacon hears a dial clicking. The volume, he hopes, as the faint clacking footsteps return, moving faster this time, in the other room.

“On our way.” Anthony’s voice is barely audible. MacCready shoves the walkie away. 

“And here I thought we’d just call it a day with some bad smells and dead bodies,” Deacon sighs.

“Still might,” MacCready says. 

The elevator rumbles to life as the same synth from earlier comes running around the corner. Deacon leans out just enough to take aim. Before it can finish its warbling intone of “Movement detected!” Deacon shoots, landing a bullet through one of the eyelights and shattering it with a faint clink. The synth clatters to the floor, laser rifle tumbling from its skeletal hands. Huh. He’s getting better at this. 

As the elevator keeps groaning its way to the top, another synth bounds up the walkway. This one looks just as battleworn as the first, missing plates dotting its limbs, its chest plate dingy and dented. Before Deacon can aim, MacCready circles himself around Deacon’s side and crosses into the open. He drops the synth with a headshot and then slides to his knees, bracing his shoulder against the console next to the conveyor belt. More synths are coming, Deacon can hear them, and there still might be a Courser. So Deacon very much does not have time for his brain to snag on how hot that looked. Fuck. 

“Left!” MacCready calls, and Deacon’s thoughts slam back into the moment as two more synths jog toward them. Deacon leans out, and takes aim. 

\----

When the dust settles (and god there is so, _so_ much dust, he’s going to be sneezing for the rest of the night), Deacon squats down on the plant floor next to one of the conveyor belts. One of the Gen-1s lays there, its arm hanging by a single wire, its eyelights dim. The plating looks much like the others: dented, dirty, or torn off completely, here and there. Wires twist around the body, grey and blue and red, a few severed and sparking. 

He lost track of how many they shot down as they moved through what turned out to be an absolute labyrinth of conveyor belts and machinery, one room after another. No Courser, thankfully, but the longer they fought their way through, the less Deacon expected one. 

“So, let me get this straight,” Anthony says from somewhere behind him, “we just got attacked by a small army of synths — synths that had taken out an entire raider gang before us — and you, of all people, want me to believe this is good news?” 

Deacon sighs, glancing back over his shoulder. Anthony’s leaning against the edge of the nearest conveyor belt, and when he shifts, Deacon can see a stripe of dust coating his pants from it. Anthony folds his arms over the strap of his combat rifle, raising an eyebrow.

“I believe my words were, ‘there may be some good news,’” Deacon says.

“I could use some, right about now. Because from where I’m standing, this looks like a disaster.” Anthony nudges something on the floor with his toe, and Deacon hears it go rolling across the floor.

“These synths,” Deacon says, turning back to poke a broken edge of plating, “are in bad shape.”

“Yeah, I mean, they had a shootout with raiders—”

“No, listen. They _stayed_ in bad shape. As in, no one’s come to repair them. No one’s called them back for replacements.” 

“They’re not keeping an active eye on this place,” Preston says as he strolls up from the back of the room, where he and MacCready had been checking over the rest of the synths, and looking at any supplies left around. 

Anthony curls his mouth into a contemplative frown. “Doesn’t really change that they were here, at some point. We don’t know if they’re keeping tabs remotely, somehow, or if it’s bugged, or alarmed? Hell, more might be on the way.” 

Deacon sees MacCready tense on Anthony’s other side, looking around quickly. He sighs and pushes himself back up to stand. “You’re not wrong, but in my experience? The places they keep surveillance on, they keep fresh guards up. We’ve taken out places in the past, only to come back and find them occupied again. But when we find the Gen-1s in this shape? They never bother replacing them. Usually means they got what they wanted, and they’re just… covering their bases. Like Switchboard.” 

Preston runs a hand over the conveyor belt, examining the dust that sweeps up. “What would they want with a fishpacking plant?”

“Maybe the same things we came for,” MacCready says, before Deacon can even open his mouth. “Parts? Machinery? Maybe a power source? Hell, maybe they needed a conveyor belt. They gotta need that crap to make all these guys, right? What?” 

Deacon realizes he’s staring with the last word, the corner of his mouth twitching up without his permission. He looks away quickly. 

“I’m just saying, it could be. I don’t know what the he—eck they’d want,” MacCready says, a little defensively. 

“No, you’re—” Deacon shakes his head. “Just. You’re right. It’s a good point.” 

“Oh.” MacCready clears his throat and shifts his rifle strap on his shoulder. “Well. Yeah.”

Deacon can feel Anthony’s eyes on him without even looking. He takes a few steps away, pretending to examine a counter on one side of the room. “My point is, we can watch the place tonight, see what happens. But if they don’t retaliate, I think this works out in our favor. They got what they wanted, they’re not coming back, and they’re not checking in. This might actually be a really safe option, after all.” 

He risks another look back without turning his head, and finds Anthony staring down at the synth he’d walked away from. He nods to himself, after a moment, then nods again more firmly as he turns back toward Deacon. “All right. We’ll camp at the cottage tonight, keep watch, maybe check it again in the morning, but — yeah, maybe this could work.” 

“You’re getting us gas masks if you’re going to make us help strip this place, though,” MacCready says, wrinkling his nose. “I’m not even going to be able to look at fish for at least a week.”

Deacon snickers. “So that’s a no on mirelurk stew for dinner?” 

MacCready scrunches up his nose even further. It makes Deacon want to do something incredibly stupid. He goes back to examining the shelves, grabbing the first thing he can reach, which turns out to be a box of Abraxo cleaner. He tries to look utterly fascinated by the ingredients.

“And anyway,” Preston says, “that’s what recruits are for.” When Deacon risks a glance up, Preston smirks and winks at him. That surprises a laugh out of Deacon. He watches Preston bump Anthony’s shoulder with his, and Anthony then give him a small smile in return. 

“We’re going to have to figure out if we even _can_ strip this place. And how we’re going to do… god, anything?” Anthony says, his smile fading as he bends his head down. “Shit, we’re really doing this, huh?”

His eyes go a little distant as he stares down at the floor. Deacon and Preston exchange a look. Deacon clears his throat again. “Well, if we’re going to start planning, I vote we do it at the Trainwreck House instead of the Dead Fish Depot. And I think the first order of business is a fish-free jerky feast.”

Anthony glances up, the corner of his mouth lifting. “God, someone has got to revive the art of cooking in this century.” 

Deacon sees Preston’s shoulders relax as he says, “Be the change, babe.”

“That wasn’t what you said last time I made dinner,” Anthony says. He pushes off from the conveyor belt to lead the way up the walkway. 

“I said ‘be the _change_’,” Preston says, snorting and ducking when Anthony whips a hand out to grab for his hat. 

Deacon falls into step behind them, MacCready at his side. MacCready bumps the back of Deacon’s hand with his as they climb. When Deacon looks over, MacCready just gives him a little smile. “You ought to give him lessons.” 

Deacon swallows a bit, but smiles back. “Think I could get away with overcharging?” 

“I won’t tell if you won’t,” MacCready stage whispers, his eyes crinkling. Deacon nearly trips on a piece of trash as he stares. MacCready laughs quietly.

\----

A few hours later, well after the sun sets, Deacon sits cross-legged on the hillside overlooking what’s left of the cottage, behind the jutting boulders. He’s full of jerky and cold beans, straight from the can. His sniper rifle lays across his lap, dug out of his things and dusted off, and he keeps lazily scanning his eyes over the road, from the picnic area to the plant and back again, or what he can see of them by moonlight. His sunglasses sit on top of his head, too useless in the dark. His palms press flat to the grass behind him. 

They hadn’t talked about the interceptor at dinner. They hadn’t talked about anything close. Deacon had made sure of that. Every time Anthony started to drift, he fished out some other story of his Railroad adventures, patched together from half-truths, just to get Anthony’s eyes back off the horizon. Or MacCready and Preston would pipe in with stories of their own. MacCready had kept a half-hearted watch on the hill while they ate perched among the rocks, and as the sun sank, Anthony and Preston wandered down to the shed to set out their bedrolls, and Deacon had nudged MacCready’s shoulder and told him to join them. 

But MacCready had lit another cigarette, and sprawled out on his back next to Deacon’s knees instead, free arm pillowing his head. “Not tired,” he said with a shrug. A warmth settled deep in Deacon’s chest, though he fought to keep it off his face. He’d settled back, then, rifle at the ready, and listened to MacCready’s soft exhales of smoke. 

“Let me ask you something,” MacCready finally says, drawing Deacon’s attention away from the road. 

“Shoot,” Deacon says. 

MacCready takes another drag, staring up at the sky, considering. Deacon’s eyes drift over the patch of hair poking out of his hat, and then across the line of his shoulders, before he yanks his gaze back up toward the sea. At length, MacCready says, “Why is there such a difference between those synths from today and the human-looking ones?” 

Deacon furrows his brow. “Are you asking why they’re made differently, or—?”

“No, like—” MacCready spreads his hands above him. Out of the corner of his eye, Deacon sees them move in a vague gesture, sending smoke in a spiral through the air. “For, you know, you guys. Is it because they don’t look human?” 

“You’re asking why we don’t try to save them too?” Deacon says. 

“Yeah.” 

Deacon sighs. A breeze drifts lazily in from the sea, ruffling the grass a little. “It depends on who you ask, I guess.” 

“I’m asking you, aren’t I?” MacCready shifts a little next to him. 

Deacon huffs out a laugh. “Why the curiosity?” 

MacCready shrugs, the leather of his duster making an odd noise against the ground. “Just… trying to understand.” 

He says it quietly, but it still makes Deacon look down, surprise tugging sharply at his chest. MacCready looks back at him, unreadable in the dark and the smoke. Deacon’s fingers curl restlessly around the grass. 

“I, uh—” he starts, around the lump in his throat. “It’s complicated. Even amongst our—uh, inner circle. Some people think we should be helping them, or at least trying to spare them. Others think it’s a waste of time. Waste of resources.”

“What do you think?” 

Deacon presses his lips together tightly. He shakes his head a little, letting out another breathy laugh. 

“What?” MacCready shifts his head on his arm, narrowing his eyes. 

“It’s just — I’ve never had this conversation with someone who would actually know why that’s a complicated question for me,” Deacon says. “It’s a little weird.” 

Deacon can see enough of MacCready’s face in the dark to see his expression smooth out a little. Quietly, he says, “That’s… kind of why I’m asking.” 

Deacon raises an eyebrow. 

“I don’t mean—” MacCready lifts his head a little, holding up the hand with the cigarette. “I’m not trying to — to dredge up stuff. I just…” 

He makes a frustrated noise, and sits up. “You came out okay on the other side of all that. And knowing it now, I feel like… it made me feel like…” He presses his free hand to his eyelids. “I don’t know. Like I could too, I guess. God, that sounds so corny out loud, never mind.” 

Deacon feels whatever reply he was trying to piece together die on his tongue. He stares at MacCready, at a loss for how to do anything else. 

MacCready tugs his hat brim lower. “Okay, I know it was a weird thing to say, you don’t have to look at me like that. Just forget I asked.” 

“No, I wasn’t—” Deacon lifts a hand, but drops it back into the grass before he lets himself reach for MacCready’s shoulder. “I don’t understand how you can—How do you still think I’m—” But he can’t seem to force the words past his lips. 

“That you’re what?” MacCready looks up at him. 

“Not a complete piece of shit?” Deacon finally says.

It takes MacCready a moment to respond. Smoke billows from his lips. “If you are, then so am I. And I just… maybe that’s not a dead end? You did something about it. So…” He shrugs to end the sentence, tapping his cigarette ash into the dirt. 

Deacon looks at him for a moment. He’s bent forward now, so Deacon can’t really see his face, the two of them still facing opposite directions. He looks at the lingering smoke ringing MacCready’s head instead, drifting out toward the trees. Then he turns back toward the road. He’s quiet for a long moment. He doesn’t know how to hold all of this. He doesn’t deserve to have it. The trust, the… god, the admiration. He doesn’t deserve any of it.

“I don’t understand how you see me the way you do,” he whispers, still staring out in front of him, at the dunes and the dark waves beyond. He hears MacCready’s duster rustle, and knows he must be looking at him again. There’s a soft exhale, and a quiet sound in the grass. And then the hand that had been holding the cigarette presses over Deacon’s thigh above where his rifle rests, warm through the denim, but tentative, light.

“Likewise,” MacCready whispers. Deacon finally looks at him then, and MacCready’s looking back, turned enough in the moonlight for Deacon to see his eyes. God, Deacon wants to touch him. He wants to touch him so bad his fingers ache. He tightens them around handfuls of grass, hearing some of it start to tear. Deacon’s eyes drop to MacCready’s lips before he thinks better of it.

Then he jerks his head away, squeezing his eyes shut. God damn it. He was the one that asked for time. He was the one that pulled away. He can’t be the one to waffle now. He can’t hurt him like that.

“To, um—to answer your question,” Deacon says quickly, snapping his eyes back open but keeping them on the plant, in the distance, “I don’t know what I think. We’re short enough on man power as it is, and no one understands the Gen-1s well enough to know if they even think independently or if they’re just programmed, like other robots. And then are you really freeing them, or just reprogramming them to think they want that because you think they should want that? And it just—gets, um, complicated.”

He slowly falls quiet when he realizes he’s rambling. MacCready hasn’t moved his hand. He hasn’t moved at all. Deacon digs his teeth into the back of his lip. He steels himself, and chances a look over.

MacCready’s turned his head away again, though. Deacon slowly starts to uncoil his fingers from the grass, feeling his chest tighten as he lifts them. But then MacCready’s hand finally pulls away.

“I should—” he says, pointing vaguely toward the shed. Deacon swallows and nods.

MacCready pushes to his feet, and turns. But then he pauses. His hands curl and uncurl at his sides. “Listen, Deacon…”

Deacon goes rigid. He waits. He doesn’t know what he’s expecting. MacCready’s head turns, glancing over his shoulder, and then he lets out a long breath, his shoulders sinking with it. “If you ever—if you guys ever need some help again, like before? I’m, you know… here.”

Deacon forces himself to smile. “Don’t say that where Desdemona can hear you. She’ll never leave you alone.”

“I’m saying it where you can hear me,” MacCready says.

Deacon’s smile falters. He shuts his eyes. “I know. I—thank you, MacCready.”

Another long pause. “Good night, Deacon.”

He watches MacCready retreat down the hill, shifting in and out of patches of moonlight splashed across the grass. Then he hunches himself forward, propping his elbows on his knees. He buries his head in his hands.

\----

“Okay, so, we build the wall first—”

“Well, wait, we should knock down the house first. Use the wood.” 

“Right, okay, so we knock down the house—”

“And we have to fill in the hole before we can build.” 

“Knock down the house, fill in the hole—”

“Well, actually, maybe we should really figure out the recruits before we start anything.”

“Bullseye,” Deacon says, looking up from the notepad on his knee.

Anthony picks idly at the trail mix Preston had passed around to be their breakfast, and doesn’t meet Deacon’s eyes. Whatever confidence had squared his shoulders and raised his chin when he faced Desdemona seems to have bled right out of him. He hunches over his lap and sighs. “Right. Sorry.” 

“I think you were right the, uh, fourth time,” Preston says gently. “Start with the people.”

Deacon nods. “Fastest would just be to take them from Nahant. It’ll set Mercer back a little, but it’s better than having to vet fresh recruits on short notice.”

He pops a peanut in his mouth. He can’t remember the last time he had one. Probably on that jaunt down to the Capital Wasteland. He doesn’t usually splurge for the imports up here, and wonders how many caps Preston had to throw down for them. Still, they’re better than he remembers.

Anthony picks a piece of dried mutfruit out and pinches it a little between his fingers. “So, we divvy it up, set some on the plant, some on the cottage, for now.” 

“Might have to throw together a couple of shacks, too,” MacCready says, gesturing off to the side. “I don’t think that shed is going to be enough.” 

“They could just take up that raider camp at the plant,” Preston says, “if we’re pretty sure it’s clear. Or maybe bunk on the roof, since it’s limited access and better sightlines.” 

Anthony nods. “Yeah, that’s… that makes sense. Less risk at the actual site too.” He chews thoughtfully on the mutfruit as Deacon scribbles down a couple more notes, then says, “We… need to talk about contingency plans, too.” 

Deacon looks up. “For an attack here, or—?”

“Everything. An attack while we’re building. Alternative sources if it breaks in construction. What to do if we get compromised before we finish,” Anthony says, sounding a little mechanical as he lists them off. “And… more than that, I’m concerned about plans once I’m in.” He bites the inside of his lip, then raises his eyes to meet Deacon’s sunglasses. “Keeping the settlements secure, ready to evacuate. What to do if I don’t come back, or if they attack while I’m inside, or if they… if they send a synth version of me back.” 

Deacon drops his pencil. MacCready looks up sharply, and Preston lowers the handful of trail mix he’d scooped out of his bag. 

Anthony looks at each of them in turn. “That’s what they’re most known for, right? That’s what everyone in the Commonwealth fears. And I’m walking right in. So we need to plan for the fact that they might do what they’ve done to literally everyone else they’ve ever gotten their hands on.”

“Fuck,” MacCready mutters, without bothering to correct himself. “I hadn’t even thought of that.”

“You’re—I really hate to say it, but you’re right,” Deacon says, reaching for his pencil again. 

“They may have no idea who I am, but if they do, or they figure it out…” Anthony says, plucking another piece of mutfruit from the bag and pinching it again. 

“Oh god,” Preston says quietly. He scrubs a hand across his face. 

“Deacon,” Anthony says, looking up again, “Desdemona told me you’ve… caught synth infiltrators, in the past. In the safehouses. Before anyone else.” 

“Once or twice,” Deacon says. He feels MacCready’s eyes lock on him. 

“So I want to ask you to prepare this,” Anthony says. “A way to tell. If I… if they do this.” 

Deacon nods slowly. “I’ll work on it.” 

“Good. And contingency plans for the Railroad, too. I know you’ve been the one that puts together their evacuation routes. It’s… too late to fret over me knowing where HQ is, but… take that into account.” 

Deacon nods again. 

“And one more thing.” 

“Name it.”

“Don’t tell me any of it.” Anthony gives him a grim look. “Not a word.” 

Deacon feels his pulse beginning to thump in his ears. The words drop like stones into the pit of his stomach. “I understand.” 

“Good,” Anthony says again. A breeze blows across the hill, making the house below them creak loudly. 

After a moment of tense silence passes, Anthony says, “Last thing. Once it’s done, all built? I want one last hurrah. A party. All my friends. Not here, obviously. Maybe Starlight. We’ll tell anyone that’s not in on this that it’s my birthday or… I don’t know, some kind of historic anniversary for the Minutemen, or something. Whatever excuse, I just—” He breaks off, looking out toward the sea. Deacon sees Preston take in a long breath through his nose, and quietly let it out through his mouth. 

“Whatever you want,” Deacon says. His stomach churns a little, and he pushes the bag of trail mix away. Anthony looks back to give him a small smile. He straightens, and slips the dried mutfruit piece into his mouth.

“All right. Let’s sweep the plant one more time, and then I think Preston and I should head to Mercer. Deacon, you and MacCready should head back toward Sanctuary. That’s probably the safest place to start putting plans together, for now. MacCready, I’d like you to work on the plans for securing the settlements, where we can send them at each location if we have to abandon ship on a moment’s notice,” Anthony says. His voice is firmer now, sinking back into the General veneer. He sits up a little. “And we’ll need people to stay available for emergency calls.” 

“Sure, boss,” MacCready says, a little quiet. 

“Deacon, stop at HQ on the way, let Desdemona know we’re set.” 

Deacon watches him stand, clapping his fingers together to rid them of crumbs. Deacon wants to tell him lies. He wants to stand up and clasp his shoulder and tell him it’ll be fine. He wants to tell him he’ll be back in no time. That this won’t be a last hurrah. But instead, he closes the notepad on his leg, and slips the pencil in the rings at the top, and watches Anthony pull the strap of his rifle over his shoulder like he’s pulling on the confidence he’d been missing moments ago. Pulling on the person he needs to be. Deacon knows a thing or two about that. And it does nothing to settle his stomach. 

Anthony glances around. “Let’s move.” 

\----

When Deacon heads down the stairs of the catacombs, Drummer Boy meets his eyes from his desk and jerks his head once toward P. A. M.’s room. A pair of agents are practicing at the makeshift shooting range near Tom’s corner, so Deacon doesn’t bother trying to shout over the noise, and just throws Drummer Boy a salute. Drummer Boy rolls his eyes and bends back down over his typewriter. 

He’s meeting MacCready in Goodneighbor after this. The two of them had parted ways on the edge of the city, after a mostly quiet trek from the coast. It had given Deacon too much time to think, rattling back and forth in his head between the spiral of thoughts about Anthony going into the Institute and the spiral of thoughts about… literally everything about MacCready. But the few aborted attempts he’d made at conversation to distract himself along the way had fallen flat. He’s more than a little relieved to have somewhere else to direct his racing thoughts, at least for a moment.

He shoulders past a couple of the other agents, weaving around the mess of chairs and desks. Carrington’s corner sits empty, he notices as he passes, and he doesn’t see Glory hovering anywhere either. 

When he ducks around the corner, he finds Desdemona right where he left her, frowning at P. A. M. as she finishes spouting off a statistic Deacon immediately tunes out of. Carrington stands on the other side, as sour-faced as always, his arms folded across his chest as he says, “Fifty-two percent? That’s prohibitively dangerous.” 

“You know, I think we should get a dog,” Deacon interrupts, leaning his elbows on the railing. He smirks as Carrington shuts his eyes once and then tips his shoulder to turn his pinched face around. Desdemona doesn’t even look at him. 

“Or hell, even just a molerat. At least someone would be happy to see me when I come home,” Deacon says. 

“I wonder whose fault it is that no one cares to greet you,” Carrington mutters.

“Ouch. Friendly fire, Doc.”

“Oh, I assure you, it was not friendly.”

“Can we please focus?” Desdemona says, rubbing at the bridge of her nose. She drops her hand and gives Deacon a look. “Tell me you have some good news.”

“The lovely little seaside cottage is picturesque and open for business,” Deacon says. “Looks just like the brochure and everything.” 

“So it’s a go.” 

“Ready and set,” Deacon says. “Cleared out the plant, plenty of machinery ripe for the picking. Can’t imagine why no one had moved into the cottage, all it needed was three walls and a roof.” 

“I thought you said—”

“Oh, it’ll be a piece of cake to knock it down. Wind might do it for us if we get a good enough storm,” Deacon says. “Repurpose it into walls. There was no one around for miles anyway.” 

“No one? Not even at the factory, or whatever it was?” Desdemona furrows her brow. 

“Think the smell must have driven them off,” Deacon says. “There were some signs of raiders, but it was an old camp, definitely abandoned.” 

He watches her carefully. He’s gotten good at gauging her moods, piecing together when she’s got time to lob questions at him and when she’s too distracted to bother. Her lips press together a little, like she can’t decide which it is either.

It’s not that he wants to lie about the synths. It’s just that he knows the minute she hears it, she’s going to fight them on the location. She’s going to make them look, and look, until she’s completely satisfied. But they’re not going to find something more isolated than this, not unless they leave the Commonwealth altogether, and that’s too much of a risk to the integrity of the signal. They don’t have time to search every nook and cranny and bog and hill. But she’s not going to see the same benefits in the ragged state of the synths that he did. And he’s not about to add more to worry about to her plate. 

So he keeps a straight face, and finally she looks away. “All right. If you’re confident it’s the right move.” 

“Trust me, Dez,” Deacon says. That gets him a snort and an eyeroll, which at least puts a crack in the tension tightening her shoulders. He’ll take it. 

“Well, that’s something at least. We’ve got other problems right now,” she says, turning back toward Carrington and P. A. M. “What if we reroute through Lexington?” 

“The Switchboard is a nexus of Institute activity. Odds of detection increase exponentially with proximity to the nexus,” P. A. M. intones.

“In English, P. A. M.” 

“She means we can’t run ops anywhere remotely near Switchboard,” Carrington says. “The Gen-1s blocking the original route have to go.” 

“Is it Randolph again?” Deacon says, straightening a little.

“No. We’ve hit a snag with Amari this time. Her latest patient is stuck there. The runner’s route’s been compromised,” Desdemona says. “And with how green our newest agents are, I’m not ready to throw them at the Gen-1s just yet, not with a synth on the line. Glory’s already on a job for Griswold, and Bullseye’s still on the coast, I assume?” 

“Mercer,” Deacon says. “He’s pulling recruits from there for building.” 

“Shit, that’s going to put Mercer’s timetable back. Why didn’t he ask me?” she says, scowling. 

“You can pin that one on me. I figured we need to push his plans harder, and that’s the fastest way to get manpower. I’ll work on Mercer while he works on the cottage, we’ll fill it back up,” Deacon says. 

Desdemona’s expression doesn’t change, but she just shakes her head. “All right. But you’re getting to work on that right away.” 

“He, uh—” Deacon says, “he also wants me to put together contingency plans. For everything. Which I wanted to talk to you about, because—”

“That will have to wait until we can sort out this mess,” Desdemona says, waving a hand toward P. A. M. “Fox has been showing some promise.”

“I thought you just said you’re not going to risk this on a newly-promoted agent?” Carrington says, his face going even more sour. 

“We’re running out of options. I don’t know when Glory’s going to be back but we can’t just—”

“I can do it,” Deacon says. 

Carrington turns his glare on Deacon. “Oh, no you don’t. Not after last time.” 

“Oh come on, Glory’s gotten shot just as much as I have—”

“Glory is an experienced heavy,” Carrington says.

“And we need you focusing on recruiting,” Desdemona adds.

“So I get this out of the way, and then I get to work,” Deacon says. “God I hate it when the two of you actually agree on something.”

“That should tell you how important it is. This is too much of a risk—” Carrington starts. 

“It’s all a risk! At least I know what the hell to look for. Or did you forget who has the experience out of the three of us here?” Deacon snaps. 

Carrington glares at him. But his mouth clicks shut.

Deacon squares his shoulders, holding his ground. “Test her out on something else. I’ve got this one.”

Desdemona considers him for a moment, her mouth in a flat line. “Fine. Arguing is only going to waste time we don’t have. But I want you to take every precaution, do you hear me?” 

Carrington throws his hands up and scoffs, muttering under his breath. Deacon straightens, folding his arms. 

“Point me at ‘em, chief.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1) So there's going to be a lot of license taken with the run-up to the Institute in this fic, because the absolutely baffling lack of contingency plans and prep work from the Railroad really really bothers me. Especially when they should know better than anyone how unpredictable and dangerous the Institute is. So just a heads up. 
> 
> 2) I lost like a good hour trying to research which nut might be the most reasonably available in the Commonwealth, and the peanut one for having the closest state for growth potential and also for being another way to link the Commonwealth and the Wasteland. 
> 
> Chapter 20 is finished, and will go up once Chapter 21 is finished. By my outline, I'm still charting it to 24 chapters, unless something changes drastically. And it's been known to. So I'm still not going to put up an official chapter count until I'm nearing the finish line. But we're getting really close! Thanks for hanging in there with me friends.


	20. Chapter 20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Deacon goes on a mission for the Railroad. MacCready's not about to let him go alone. They get some help they didn't expect.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At last I have an update to share! I'm so sorry this took ages, Ch. 21 ended up being one of those chapters I had to fight in the pit again and again, and real life reared its ugly head and made finding the energy to write kind of difficult. But here we go, finally. Thank you for your patience. 
> 
> I really have to give extra thanks to **serenityfails** this go round for being seriously the best beta I could ask for. They are never afraid to tell me to kill my darlings to make the story better, and I'm so grateful for their constant help and patience with me asking them to read so many drafts. And also just thanks to all of you letting me know how much you've enjoyed the story. I can't tell you how much it means to me.
> 
> Warnings for this chapter: brief descriptions of corpses.

It’s almost evening by the time Deacon pushes through Goodneighbor’s front gate. He’s always liked this time of day, when dusk hits the city and the sun drops low behind the broken towers. He keeps to the shadows that grow longer, block to block, while the sky fills with the kind of bright color he imagines all the faded posters withering on the walls used to have. The last of it burns out above the shop fronts now, streaking the brick orange, and turning the air cool.

A few blocks before the gate, he’d ducked into an abandoned pharmacy to change. He’d dug out some beat-up khakis and a maroon ballistic weave t-shirt, pulled on under an old bomber jacket. He doesn’t remember where he found the jacket. So he’s hoping that means he’s never worn it in Goodneighbor. He’s going to have to start marking the tags on his clothes; he’s not used to being such a regular. 

He shoves his hands in the jacket’s pockets and starts toward the Old State House, aiming for the Third Rail, following the smell of cigarette smoke and bad stew. But just as he reaches the sidewalk, he hears a muffled laugh from down the way that he swears he knows. His eyes scan down the shopfronts, falling on Daisy’s Discounts just as the “open” sign flickers off with a click. He hears Daisy’s raspy voice, now that he’s listening for it, and another laugh to answer her. 

Deacon pivots, shouldering past a drifter and one of Hancock’s triggermen to stand at the corner of the shop’s wall. He bends around and peeks in. 

MacCready’s leaning on his elbows on the side of the counter, facing the wall Deacon’s propped up against. Daisy stands further inside, locking up the crates stacked in the back. 

“So I told him,” she says, tugging at the lock to test it, “if he wanted someone that desperate, he was a hundred-fifty years too late.” 

MacCready laughs again, his eyes squeezing shut with it. The sound uncoils something in Deacon’s chest he hadn’t even realized was wound tight. It’s ridiculous. He nearly rolls his eyes at himself. But it’s so palpable, the way his whole body just… calms. 

For about ten seconds, anyway, before he hears, “Sorry, bub, we’re closed for the night.” 

He schools his face immediately. Jesus. He knows better. He _knows_ better. Always assume, always assume, _always_ assume someone’s watching who’s going to make it a problem. He’s got to get a handle on this. 

He shifts his posture, relaxing his shoulders. His hands curl up around the straps of his pack as he leans the rest of the way around the corner, casual, intentional. “Oh, I was just stopping by to tell you your display mannequin’s missing a sleeve.” 

“Har har,” MacCready says, flashing Deacon the bird. “Took you long enough. He’s with me, Daisy.”

“Is he,” she says. She squints at Deacon, looking him over hard enough to make him want to fidget. Then she looks back at MacCready and raises her eyebrows. He ducks his head, and she breaks into a smirk. 

“Well, well,” she says. She turns the smirk on Deacon. “Pleasure to meet you. Any friend of Mac’s is a friend of mine.” 

Yeah, okay, really going to have to work for it with his disguises in Goodneighbor from now on, if everyone MacCready knows is going to look at Deacon like they know exactly who he is. He shoots MacCready a look of his own, but he’s still stubbornly studying his boots.

Deacon sighs, resigned, and walks to the counter. He reaches across to shake Daisy’s hand. “I’m Deacon.” 

She shakes back firmly. “I swear I’ve seen you somewhere before.”

“One of those faces,” Deacon says, plastering on a smile. He’s absolutely going to kill MacCready. 

She drops her hand to the counter, grabbing the keyring waiting there. She thumbs past a few larger keys until she reaches a small silver one, and turns to lock the register on the end. “You boys off to cool your heels?” 

MacCready finally looks back up at Deacon, starting to open his mouth. Deacon cuts him off. “Actually, I’ve got to get back on the road.” Tipping his head more toward MacCready, he adds, “But I only need you for a minute if you want to.” 

MacCready furrows his brow and frowns. He doesn’t look away from Deacon as he says, “Rain check, Daisy?” 

“Not like I’m going anywhere,” she says. She bends down to lock a cabinet below the counter, and then pats MacCready’s shoulder as she circles around him and out onto the sidewalk. “You got that letter safe?” 

MacCready pats his duster, right over his chest. “Thanks, Dais.” 

They follow her out, and she pulls a thick curtain likely nicked from the old theater across the entrance. She turns back, giving Deacon one last appraising look, and then winking at MacCready. “You take care of yourself.” 

Deacon tugs MacCready further back toward the guard wall, out of the neon light that now floods the sidewalk. MacCready turns in his grip when they reach it, holding up his hands. “Okay, before you say anything—”

“Does _everyone_ in Goodneighbor know who I am?” Deacon hisses, darting a glance over his shoulder. 

“Look, she’s an old friend, I never mentioned you by name, it just—you know, came up, once or twice,” MacCready says, wincing. “Just her, I swear. Well, and Hancock, but—”

Deacon sighs. He thinks back a couple of weeks, watching MacCready hunching on a bar stool through the smoky dim of the Third Rail. Daisy reaching over to clasp his arm. Deacon aching to do the same from across the room. 

“I’m sorry, all right?” MacCready says, when the silence stretches a little. “I didn’t think she’d—I mean I didn’t think you’d be around her, she’s just—”

“It’s fine,” Deacon says, shaking his head. “It’s—I mean, Hancock is already making things difficult, this is probably a drop in the bucket.” 

“I won’t—um, mention you. Again,” MacCready says, reaching up to rub at the back of his neck. 

“It’s fine, Bobby,” Deacon says again, trying to keep the edge out of his voice this time. It probably is. Just having his name isn’t a death sentence, even if it does raise his hackles. Connecting that name to MacCready is more troubling, but unless they’ve already connected him to MacCready, Daisy’s not necessarily going to be the first stop for a tip-off. Having the name connected to Goodneighbor in general: also not great. But he’s got options here. Other faces he’s known by, other names. He can work with this, probably. 

“It’s not the end of the world,” he finally adds, managing to earn himself a weak little smirk from MacCready, so that’s something.

MacCready folds his arms. “All right, my turn, then. What’s the deal? Where are you going?” 

“Some business came up,” Deacon says. He tries to resist the urge to glance around again, or they really will start to look suspicious. He keeps his voice low instead. “Urgent. The options came down to me, or… me. It has to be tonight. I’ll meet you back when I’m done, should be back by morning—”

“What is it?” MacCready says, frowning again.

“Not in the open,” Deacon whispers back.

MacCready purses his lips. “Is it… what I did before? That night at Slim’s?” 

“Not exactly, it’s—” Deacon grits his teeth. He shifts, pressing himself against the wall at MacCready’s side, like he’s just getting more comfortable. He surveys the square. A pair of Hancock’s men hover near the front gate, and another of them stands near the weapon shop. A couple drifters stroll past, talking quietly. None of them seem to be watching Deacon and MacCready’s little corner that closely. With the storefronts dark, and the benches empty, it’s crawling toward the time of night that fills the bar anyway. Deacon keeps his face turned out, his voice just as low. “We’ve got a _package_ needs delivering.”

“A package?” MacCready squints at him.

Deacon sighs. “That night you were talking about? You were the mail carrier.” 

“Oh. _Oh_. So it is the same job.” 

“No, we have a delivery man for this one. But there’s a roadblock on his delivery route,” Deacon says. “A dangerous one.” 

Out of the corner of his eye, Deacon sees MacCready slowly nod. “The type of roadblock you find at the top of big Greene towers?” 

The corner of Deacon’s mouth lifts, just a little. He’s trying. Deacon sort of wants to kiss him for it. Eyes front, eyes front. “More like the type you run into at fishpacking plants.” 

“Then I’m coming with you.”

“What? No,” Deacon turns back toward him, tensing. “Just meet me back here when—”

“What do you mean, ‘no’? I’m not leaving you to deal with this alone,” MacCready says, voice rising until Deacon shoots a glance around. MacCready scoffs but does quiet himself as he adds, “Come on, two of us will get it done faster.”

“Bobby, this is exactly the sort of thing I’m trying not to drag you into—”

“I’m dragging myself into it. You said it was urgent.” 

“Yeah, but I can handle a few—_roadblocks_. I’ll be back before—”

“Last time you ‘handled a few roadblocks’ on your own I almost lost you!” MacCready snaps, barely keeping his voice in check. His eyes go wide and almost angry in the dim light. 

Deacon’s jaw snaps shut. He stares, stunned, through his shades as MacCready’s nostrils flare a little, his teeth clenching. He holds Deacon’s gaze and steps closer, until they’re nearly touching.

“You aren’t the only one that’s afraid of that,” he grounds out, low and firm. “You keep trying to protect me. Well, it’s my fucking—it’s my turn.” 

Deacon feels pinned as MacCready’s eyes flick back and forth over his face. He takes a breath, and he knows MacCready will hear it shake out of him. He hadn’t… realized. He hadn’t thought it through. He’d sunken himself so deep in the quagmire of shit that is his mind, his memories, his fears, he never stopped to remember MacCready was wading through the same damn mud. He’d shouted it in Deacon’s face when Deacon tried to volunteer for the Institute, and still it hadn’t really clicked. Still it stuns him to hear it now. 

Deacon doesn’t want him wrapped up in this. But how can he not understand the urge, when MacCready puts it like that?

“...Okay.” 

MacCready blinks at him in surprise, like he was gearing himself up for another round in the ring. “Yeah?” 

Deacon swallows around the lump in his throat. _I’m trying, too, okay?_ “Better together, like you said.”

MacCready’s lips twitch up. “Better together.”

Deacon buries his hands in his coat pockets again before he can do anything else he wants to do with them. “I need to—the, uh, package is… here. I need to check on it.” 

“Here?” MacCready points at the cobblestone under their feet, to indicate Goodneighbor at large. Deacon nods. “Oh, crap, okay.” 

“Give me ten minutes, I’ll meet you outside the gate.”

MacCready nods, turning immediately toward the entrance. Deacon steps back onto the sidewalk, following the path Daisy had taken down the shopfronts, and tries to get his heart to stop racing. He can spiral about this when there isn’t a synth’s life on the line.

\----

Two hours later, they creep through the dark streets of Old Malden, Deacon taking point and MacCready watching the rear. Many of the old towns fall quiet at night, but tonight, Malden is nearly silent. No trash can fires or glowing lanterns break the shadows shrouding the street. Not even the buildings, hollowed out and gaping open, creak in the breeze. Everything sits very, very still. It sets Deacon’s teeth on edge. His eyes dart back and forth from one side of the street to the other, lingering on every empty car, every windswept pile of debris, every missing shop door. It’s as still as Mahkra was, and if that doesn’t send up red flags, nothing will. It’s like the whole world hides when the Institute comes knocking. He watches his feet, nervous to even brush a pebble or crunch down on a dead leaf.

“So why are they interested in a subway station?” MacCready whispers when they pause across from some kind of office building. Deacon tenses a little, looking around again, but MacCready’s keeping his voice barely above a breath, and the shadows stay as still as ever.

Deacon doubts it’s the subway station itself the Institute’s after. While they’re not above a little scrap and salvage, from what the Railroad’s observed, or seeking out a bit of Old World tech, they rarely send Gen-1s alone for those endeavors. Which would make the prize in Malden the location itself. A much bigger concern. Why here?

He looks down the street again, tracing the map of the routes he can remember in his head. A runner’s path, something high traffic? Or a safehouse. Oh, shit. It’s Griswold, isn’t it, that’s somewhere on the edge of town? The subway station sits right in front of the finish line. If the Institute knows that, if they even caught the slightest rumor…

“I can think of some reasons,” Deacon finally says, tilting his head close. “We’re going to hope none of them are right.” 

“Well that’s cryptic as sh—heck,” MacCready mutters.

Deacon throws a look over his shoulder. “Welcome to the Railroad.”

They creep forward again, around some kind of fenced-in courtyard. There’s just enough moonlight to pick out an old bust in the center, the shape strange in the dark. 

“Are they lying in wait? For whatever’s—uh, whoever’s—back in Good—uh, town?”

As much as the talking is making Deacon edgy, he’s still pleasantly surprised by MacCready fumbling toward discretion, clumsy as he is about it. Deacon pauses near some bushes and turns his head a little to whisper, “That’s one possibility.”

“Are you doing this on purpose?” MacCready says. Deacon can hear the frown, even at a whisper.

“What?”

“The cryptic thing. I’m already doing this, you don’t have to keep me in the dark.” 

Deacon bites the inside of his cheek and sighs. “Bobby, I’m not keeping you in the dark because I don’t want you to know. The fewer people that know anything about our inner workings, the better. We don’t even tell our agents everything. Some runners only know the route to one safehouse, maybe two.” He turns his head to look back, meeting MacCready’s gaze. “It’s safer for both of us if you don’t know what I’m thinking here.” 

MacCready huffs a sigh. His lips press into an unhappy line, but he doesn’t argue. He nods for Deacon to keep moving. Deacon doesn’t.

“Hey,” he says. “If I didn’t trust you, you wouldn’t be here. Period. Wouldn’t have even stopped to tell you I was going. If you’re looking out for me, I’m looking out for you too. That’s the only way we’re doing this.” 

MacCready stares at him for a moment. Even in the dark, Deacon sees his eyes soften. He nods again. “We should move.” 

Deacon keeps his knees bent as he rounds the side of the hedge. The subway center stands ahead of them, the sign fluorescent and shockingly bright where it’s wedged between so many empty buildings. He takes a single step forward, and stops short when a blue laser beam splits the air ahead of him, dissolving off toward the hospital across the street. Another follows, and then another. MacCready yanks Deacon to the side, behind the rusty shell of a pickup truck. 

“That them?” MacCready whispers as he slings his rifle forward and lifts the scope.

“Yeah,” Deacon says, “but what are they shooting at?” 

He hears a shout, and then the loud grinding of a minigun. A figure leaps backward from the canopy of the subway, lugging the minigun and drilling out bullets so fast the barrel glows orange in the dark. Deacon doesn’t even need to see the white hair catching the moonlight to know who it is.

“It looks like a woman—” MacCready starts, but interrupts himself to turn sharply when Deacon snorts out a laugh he barely covers in time. “What the heck?” 

“It’s Glory,” Deacon says, leaning around the side of the truck. 

“Who?” 

“The one who greeted us at the door the first time you came to HQ,” Deacon says. “Come on.” 

By the time they reach her, three Gen-1s lay sparking in the street. She jerks around at the sound of their footsteps, then furrows her brow. “The hell are you doing here? Wait, _you_ got assigned the same damn job?” 

“Dez said you were on a job for Griswold,” Deacon says.

“Yeah, you’re looking at it. How did you get roped into this?”

“Doc A put out the distress signal. Bullseye’s busy. Everyone else is—”

“Too green, right. She’s going to keep saying that until one of us gets shot again,” Glory says, rolling her eyes. “Is that why she let you bring a tourist?”

“...Not exactly,” Deacon says.

“What the heck’s a tourist?” MacCready cuts in.

Glory raises her eyebrows. Deacon pointedly looks away from her. “People who help us once in a while. Surface level stuff. People that don’t actually answer to us but don’t mind lending a hand.”

“Ah.”

Deacon risks a look back, only to find Glory smirking at him as she says, “She doesn’t know he’s here, does she?”

“I didn’t exactly plan for—”

“What’s it matter if I’m here? Point and shoot, they’re just as dead.” MacCready folds his arms over the strap of his rifle. 

Glory breaks into a grin. “Oh, I knew I liked you.” She nods to herself a little, reaching down for her minigun again. “All right, tourist. I’ve been wanting to see you in action ever since Deacon bragged about your Dayton run. What say we join forces and rock the heavens a little? Show me what you and Deacon get up to, running around with Bullseye.”

“Usually it’s spa days and macrame, but hey, I’m up for some mayhem,” Deacon says, peeking over the rim of sunglasses at MacCready to wink. 

MacCready shrugs. “I mean, I signed up to shoot things, so let’s shoot things.”

“My kind of guy,” Glory says, still grinning.

\----

“My Griswold boys gave me nothing on this place,” Glory whispers as they climb down the inert escalators, trying not to let the trash strewn over them crunch under their feet. “All I know is, ‘Malden Center’s hot.’”

“Yeah, that’s about what I got from Dez,” Deacon whispers back. He creeps carefully toward one of the doorways at the end and crouches down. He braces his shoulder and peeks in. 

Laying just a few feet away, her bloody head rolled beneath one of the old turnstiles, is what looks like a raider. Deacon recognizes the laser burn across her thigh, her leather pants slashed open with it. As he looks, he hears gunfire erupt further in. 

“Sounds like a party,” Deacon says quietly. “Two-for-one special, raiders and Gen-1s.” 

Glory sighs behind him. “Aw, hell. If it’s got to be done… but can’t we just, I don’t know, chase them off?” 

Deacon gives her a look, and she sighs again. He catches sight of MacCready behind her where he leans in the other doorway, looking at her in bewilderment. Deacon’s lips part to explain, but then he just closes them again and looks back into the next room. He’ll figure it out. Might even be good for him. 

The gunfire grows louder. Two Gen-1 synths back slowly into view from around the corner, shooting at something none of them can see. They cross in front of a dirt-streaked GNN poster, steps from colliding with a blazing trash can, but to Deacon’s disappointment, they stop short of it. A low groan and a heavy thump sound from around the corner, and the synths lower their weapons. 

“The hell with this,” Glory says. Deacon looks back to see her lifting the minigun, ready to shoulder around him. But behind her, MacCready’s already raised his scope, his finger poised on the sniper rifle’s trigger. Deacon grabs Glory’s wrist, jerking his head toward MacCready when she snaps, “What?” 

They watch as the Gen-1s drop, one and then the other, with two perfect shots to the head. Deacon smirks as he looks up and sees Glory’s eyes widen. 

“Damn,” she breathes, as MacCready lowers his rifle. “Not bad for a human.” 

MacCready’s head jerks up. “‘For a—’? You’re—?”

“In the artificial flesh,” Glory says. Deacon darts a glance between the two, poised to run interference as Glory raises her chin. “You’ve been hanging around Deacon, you can’t be that out of the loop about us.” 

MacCready sputters. “Well, no, I just—uh, haven’t met many, um—”

The corner of Glory’s mouth lifts a little. Deacon relaxes a fraction. “Let me help. The rumors? Bullshit. I’m as real a girl as you’ll ever meet. The only difference is, I bet your assembly instructions were a hell of a lot more fun.” 

MacCready barks out a laugh, clearly surprising himself, as his hand flies up to cover his mouth. He cuts a glance back into the next room, but no other Gen-1s pop out of the shadows. 

“So, we good here? Can we keep moving?” Glory says. 

MacCready nods, maybe one too many times. Glory shoulders into the next room, stepping around the sprawled raider. As Deacon stands to follow, MacCready yanks on his elbow. 

“You could’ve warned me!” he hisses. 

“Why? Does it make a difference?” Deacon says, frowning.

“No, I don’t—it’s not—it’s not _that_, I just looked like a total idiot,” MacCready says, dropping his hand. The light is low, tinged orange from the crackling fire in the trash can, but Deacon swears there’s a flush creeping up MacCready’s neck. Deacon starts to smile, and MacCready immediately scowls and swats his shoulder. 

“You’re such a jerk,” he growls. He marches away, hip-checking the turnstile as he goes. 

“So you keep saying,” Deacon says, laughing.

\----

They fight their way between stalled trains, splitting off to take cover under the windows of the cars or behind the tiled pillars along the platform. Rubble litters the floor, shards of concrete and pieces of tile scattered over fallen slats of wood. Deacon spends more time looking down, trying not to trip, than he does actually landing any of his shots.

It hardly matters. MacCready climbs, sure-footed, over the rubble to hit synth after synth, looking like a goddamn badass, because of course he does. As if Deacon needed more distractions. MacCready shoots between the broken windows, and then around the train’s nose, before sprinting forward to aim between the boards of some kind of shoddy wooden lean-to on the edge of the tunnel. Whatever Gen-1s he doesn’t drop get caught in the rain of bullets from Glory’s minigun. She sprays them through the doorway of a side room and out into the tunnel, shouting over the din as she goes. 

When the last of them finally clatters to the floor (by Deacon’s shot, thank you very much, he’s not _completely_ useless), Deacon waves off the cloud of dust that bursts up from the pile of concrete it falls on. Glory starts to laugh. She leans an arm on the open doorway of one of the subway cars, laughing between breaths. 

“You,” she says, pointing at the MacCready as he rests back behind a pillar, “are one ass-kicking machine.”

Deacon puts on his best _I-told-you-so_ face, just for Glory, who rolls her eyes and waves him off. MacCready just murmurs a breathless, “Thanks.” 

“And Deacon, you ain’t so bad either,” she says. She makes her best _are-you-happy-now_ face back at him. 

“I aims to please,” he says. He raises a couple fingers and gives her a lazy salute. She shakes her head, but she’s smiling.

“So you guys don’t do this often?” MacCready says. He shifts and bends forward a little, and by the angle of the gun barrel, Deacon can tell he’s probably reloading. 

“Oh, I do it all the time. It’s my job, doing the heavy stuff. Not really this one’s usual fare.” Glory waves a hand toward Deacon. 

“Yeah, I noticed that last time,” MacCready says. Deacon just knows he’s smirking.

“God, a guy gets shot _one_ time,” Deacon grumbles. “You’d rather they sent someone else?” 

Glory snickers, pulling herself out of the train car. “Yeah. Drag that candy-ass Carrington out here instead. I’d pay to see that.” 

Deacon and MacCready both start laughing. MacCready holds up a hand. “Wait, wait, so what is _with_ that guy? What crawled up his—uh, butt and died?” 

“Hell if I know,” Glory says. “I mean, I’d rather have him patching me up than Tinker Tom, but I don’t think he’s ever heard of ‘bedside manner.’ Just about made my year watching you go off on him.” 

“Yeah, well,” MacCready says, looking around the pillar in time to meet Deacon’s gaze. He tugs a little at his hat. “He deserved it.” 

Deacon sees Glory look at him out of the corner of his eye. He immediately clears his throat and cranes his neck to look down the platform. “We should keep moving, there’s no way that was all of them. This place is like a labyrinth.”

He hears the scrape of the minigun as Glory lifts it again. She says, “I always get lost in places like this.”

“God, yeah,” MacCready says, swinging around the pillar. “Right when you think you’ve got them all, you find ten more stupid hidden nooks.” 

“Why can’t the bad guys be in one place? Clustered together, real tight. Boom,” Glory says.

“Ha! Now you’re talking,” MacCready says. They fall into step together behind Deacon. “Did a job like that once. Probably the most satisfying job ever.” 

“No shit? What, you just walk in on a raider convention?” Glory says.

“Something like that. It was another subway station. I marched in and the whole group of them were just sitting around a fire in one corner. They looked at me, I looked at them, and then I noticed every entry was blocked with rubble. I pulled out a grenade, pulled the pin, and bolted.” 

Glory shrieks with laughter, loud enough that Deacon has to wave a hand and shush her as they slip further down the tunnel. MacCready chuckles along with her. “I almost didn’t even need the caps for that one.” 

“Hell yeah,” Glory says when she catches her breath. “_That’s_ how you do it.”

“Oh my god, I’m never taking the two of you out together again,” Deacon says over his shoulder. 

“Come on, we haven’t even gotten around to shit-talking you, yet,” Glory says, as MacCready snorts. 

“Shitheads. Both of you.” 

“Jealousy isn’t your color, Deacon.” Glory shoves his shoulder lightly. Deacon hides his smile as he leads them on.

\----

“Dammit, I knew I should’ve brought some popcorn.” 

“Now who’s being too loud, _Deacon_?”

“Over that racket? I can barely hear myself!”

The three of them crouch around a busted-open section of wall off an old maintenance tunnel, pressing back to keep out of sight. Broken chunks of brick dig into Deacon’s knees, but the show in front of them is worth it. 

The room on the other side—which looks like another massive train tunnel yawning open into a cavern—is lined with patchwork wooden lean-tos and shacks like the one they saw upstairs. A whole little rickety village of raiders, and now the site of their last stand. Gen-1s crowd what looks like a guard wall propped up with a walkway and a few covered canopies. They shoot across the tunnel at the last of the raiders, wood shavings showering to the floor with every laser shot that goes wide. Once they’d sorted out what was happening, the three of them had taken their front row seats and hunkered down to let the two groups do most of the work for them.

“Should we place bets?” Deacon says, watching one of the Gen-1s crumple and tumble down off the walkway. “My money’s on—”

“The synths,” MacCready and Glory say at the same time.

“Well that’s no fun.” 

“They cleared out the whole subway! That’s not even worth the caps,” MacCready says, leaning a little over Deacon’s shoulder to see. Deacon stays very still as MacCready’s chest presses close against his back, distractingly warm even through the duster.

“Plus, synths are just better,” Glory says from the other side of the opening. “That’s just fact.”

“Right, so, about that ‘clearing out the subway’ argument—” Deacon raises his eyebrows, flicking his eyes pointedly toward MacCready.

“You have a synth with you,” Glory says. “And come on, ninety-nine percent of humans can’t shoot like him.” 

“She has a point,” MacCready says, more than a little smug. Deacon elbows him without looking, which backfires when MacCready just chuckles right in his ear and sends goosebumps flooding down Deacon’s neck. Bastard.

“You’ve known each other an hour and you’re already ganging up on me,” Deacon says, hoping he doesn’t sound as choked as he feels. 

“Stop being so easy to gang up on, then,” Glory says. She stands up, brushing dirt from her thighs. “Come on, I’m bored. Let’s tip the scales in our favor.” 

It’s short work, with MacCready and Glory leading the charge. Most of the raiders already lay dead, scattered across the creaking woodwork castle. A few holdouts still duck between the slats, but it’s the synths that give them the most trouble, bounding across the tin canopies faster than the raiders can move. Deacon ends up shoving himself back into an alcove made by some shelves, waiting for one of them to pass overhead before shooting through a gap in the roof and sending it flying off to the floor. MacCready picks off the one running behind it from another shack. They lock eyes and grin.

It’s only a matter of minutes before the last of them falls after that, and Glory and MacCready are splitting off to check for stragglers. 

“And Malden is secure,” Glory says, when they regroup near a side room at the back. “I’ll tell Griswold the package is incoming. And I’ll tell Dez we’re clear.” 

She glances over at MacCready. She smiles slowly, and then holds out a hand. “It’s been a god-damned pleasure.” 

MacCready smiles back and shakes her hand. Glory winks at Deacon. “Even you, D-Man.”

“So, group hug? Yes? No?” Deacon lifts his arms.

Glory rolls her eyes. “Always the comedian. How do you put up with this?” 

“Every day I suffer,” MacCready says, eyes glinting as he meets Deacon’s gaze again. 

Glory smacks Deacon’s chest with the back of her hand before he can respond. “Come on, walk me out. You guys can keep the loot.”

Here it comes. Deacon sighs. _Two minutes_, he mouths to Mac, holding up two fingers. MacCready nods and moves toward a row of shelves against one of the wooden walls. Deacon follows Glory into the side room and past more shelves, these filled with various tools. An elevator waits along the wall beyond them, right beneath the flickering cage light on the ceiling. 

Glory turns as they reach the elevator doors, setting her minigun on the ground and cocking her hip. “I like him. You should keep him.” 

Deacon purses his lips, giving her a look he hopes translates through the shades. Flatly, he says, “Thanks, Glory.” 

She narrows her eyes, studying him for a moment. “You didn’t fuck it up already, did you?”

“Thanks, Glory,” Deacon says again, tightly this time, raising his eyebrows at the elevator to get her to take the hint. 

She doesn’t. “Oh my god, you _already_ fucked it up?” 

“_Thanks_, Glory,” he grounds out, glaring over the rim of his glasses.

She scoffs and finally turns to press the elevator button. As it grumbles to life, she looks back over her shoulder. “He’s still completely into you, you know. Like, really gone. It’s kinda cute, even if he does have terrible taste.” 

Deacon’s eyes drop. He bites the inside of his cheek to ride out the weird flare of feeling through his chest. 

“Thanks, Glory,” he says, quietly this time. 

As she leans down to grab the gun, she cranes her neck to catch his gaze. “Take my advice once in awhile, yeah?” 

He twists his lips and nods. The elevator doors ding and slide open. 

He looks up. “Hey, that thing we talked about? With your friend? What happened?” 

Glory’s smile fades. She pushes a button on the inside of the elevator. “I said yes. It should’ve been her, but… someone deserves a chance to live well, find some happiness, maybe.” She sighs, sounding more than a little unsure.

The doors grind closed. Deacon stares at them for a moment. Softly, he murmurs, “Yeah.” 

As he turns to leave, he notices his shadow sweep across one of the shelves. At the top, a tiny little model train sits half-buried under a clump of dust. Deacon reaches up, brushing it clean, and pulling it down off the shelf. Out beyond the doorway, he hears the light clatter of MacCready rifling through the shelves. If he looks out, he can make out the hat bobbing between them. Deacon looks back at the train, takes a long breath, and then slings his pack down and pulls it open. He tucks the model between two folded shirts. 

“Hey, save a drawer for me!” he calls out as he closes the pack up. 

\----

They reach Sanctuary in the same dwindling golden hour Deacon reached Goodneighbor the day before. The pleasant buzz of fighting in good company has long since faded, and Deacon spent most of the walk back sunken deep into his thoughts. MacCready, for the most part, left him to them.

They walk the wooden bridge side by side, crossing through the gate with a nod and a wave from Torres at his post. They pass a couple farm hands crossing into the street from the fields behind the general store. Both call greetings to MacCready, one patting his shoulder, the other smiling politely at Deacon. Anne waves through the window when they pass the tailor shop. And with every hello, every nod, Deacon feels his shoulders ratcheting higher toward his ears. 

He should be used to this by now. It’s old news. This isn’t Goodneighbor. He doesn’t have aliases ready to flip through. People know his face. They’ve looked too long, and he let them. He’s not going to say he’s made peace with it, with being spotted out of a crowd, recognized and remembered, but he can’t say he didn’t have fair warning. 

Still, he feels so damn _seen_. It makes the back of his neck prickle, his shoulders pulling taut under his shirt. It feels like exposure, a feeling that’s only been building since the elevator doors closed on Glory’s last words. 

It’s just… to be known is one thing to wrestle with. It’s another to be so known he’s just expected, to have some kind of place in the community, however small. To just have a _place_. One that isn’t tied to the cause, or the moment. To be so slotted into daily life that no one thinks twice to see him at MacCready’s side. 

And there’s the other, _other_ thing. That sparking awareness of MacCready right next to him, as someone he’s being connected to. Someone he’s connected himself to. Someone he can’t stop connecting himself to, not when he says shit like, “It’s my turn to protect you.” It’s about the pair of them, as a pair. A fixture. The list of people that know keeps growing. Anthony, and Daisy, and Glory… how many settlers already assumed? How many people saw them enter MacCready’s house together and whispered? What about in Goodneighbor? 

Anxiety claws its way up through his chest and into his throat, squeezing. It’s so familiar it feels like a habit, and maybe it is. It’s like throwing on an old coat that never fit right and never looked good and always scratched the inside of his arm with its uneven seam. But he shoulders it on anyway. It’s just easier, and he already knows how it’s going to feel, and even if he hates it, he knows how to deal with it. 

Except… for the first time in a very, very long time, he doesn’t want to. For the first time maybe ever in his life, he’s sick of it.

Because for all of this, it doesn’t feel wrong to walk the street at MacCready’s side. Terrifying? Yes. Against all of his instincts? Absolutely. Foolish? God, probably. But not _wrong_. No, it feels right. Glaringly, stupidly right. Not just to have a place, but a person — this person — to come home to. 

To have a home. 

_Find some happiness, maybe_, Glory said, like Deacon could remember what that even felt like. But maybe it could feel better than this. 

“What’s wrong?”

Deacon realizes then he’s just been standing next to their — _their_? No. Nope. Stop. He’s been standing next to MacCready’s couch without moving, his pack still on his shoulders. He barely remembers following MacCready off the sidewalk, and drifting behind him through the door. When he turns, MacCready’s rifle is already hanging on its hook, and his pack hunches on the floor by his feet. His face is pinched beneath the brim of his hat, uncertain, as he waits for an answer.

“Sorry, I was just thinking—” Deacon starts, and swallows, and flounders. “If a deathclaw got in a fistfight with a yao guai, who do you think would win?” 

MacCready blinks at him. He narrows his eyes a little, raising his chin. Deacon waits. Braces, really.

But all MacCready says is, “Can yao guai even make fists?” 

Deacon lets out a breath, and tries to make it sound like a laugh. “I mean, do they need to? With claws like that?” 

MacCready bobs his head back and forth, like he’s genuinely considering. “A yao guai’s got strength, but a deathclaw’s got speed _and_ strength. Think that’s where my caps are going.”

“I was just thinking, you know, since that story Bullseye told about seeing a deathclaw fighting a radscorp in the Sea—”

“Yeah, sure,” MacCready says, cutting off Deacon’s rambling at the pass, and stepping around his pack to stand in front of him. “Any other pressing problems I can help solve for you?” 

They’re close enough that MacCready has to tip his head up, just a little, to look Deacon in the eye. Close enough that he can probably see where Deacon’s eyes actually are through the lenses of his shades, because he’s looking right on target. His tone is light. His gaze is heavy. Deacon’s throat goes dry, and he wets his lips compulsively. God, he doesn’t deserve this man. Here he is crawling out of his skin at just the thought of them being seen together, and MacCready’s just standing there, caring about him, like it isn’t even a question. Elbowing his way into Deacon’s battles and demanding the chance to look out for him and trying to understand.

“I haven’t thanked you,” Deacon says. 

“I told you I’d help if you needed it,” MacCready says. “And it was… kinda fun.”

Deacon looks down. He’s hyper-aware of how close it tips his head toward the brim of MacCready’s hat. “I think you know that’s not all I’m thanking you for.”

MacCready’s close enough that Deacon hears the uneven breath he sucks in. Deacon looks up to meet his gaze. 

“You’re really not making this easier,” MacCready says, after a moment.

Deacon shuts his eyes. Want stabs through him, hard enough to make his fingers shake at his sides. “I know. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—”

“I want you to mean to,” MacCready says. 

Deacon snaps his eyes back open. MacCready looks at him with something like longing, pulled from somewhere in him that aches. Deacon sees it in the way his jaw tightens. Fuck.

“You’re not making this easier either,” Deacon whispers.

“Good,” MacCready says. He bites his lip when Deacon’s breath catches. MacCready hovers close for a moment, long enough that Deacon thinks if he just leans a little forward, just takes one half-step closer… and then MacCready steps back. Once, and then again.

He grabs his pack off the floor. The moment passes. 

“We should get something to eat,” he says as he slings one strap over his arm, clearing his throat.

Deacon pushes his shades back up his nose. His cheeks feel hot. He adjusts the straps of his own pack for an excuse to look away when MacCready passes him. “Right, yeah, let me just… clean up a little.”

He stumbles down the hall without listening for MacCready’s answer.

\----

He pulls his pack off and slams it to the floor as the bedroom door closes behind him. He leans back against it, pressing his hands to his face. He breathes out, loud and long, against his palms. His head is so loud. 

Fuck, fuck, _fuck_.

How can MacCready be so certain? How can he be certain enough to keep waiting? Why hasn’t he given up? MacCready’s never patient, and Deacon’s not worth it. Certainly not worth the wait. Definitely not worth the work. And god, Deacon is so much work, isn’t he?

And what’s Deacon done in return? Worry. Withdraw. Pull his hand out of reach like a plant shrivelling out of the sun. He’s sick of it. God, he’s so sick of it. He’s so sick of hesitating and trying not to and... just the fucking word “shouldn’t.” He’s so sick of being afraid.

_This thing, you and me? This can be something good_, MacCready had said, his fingers warm and solid between Deacon’s. 

Deacon drops his hands and thunks his head back against the door. How do you justify desire to instinct? How do you tell yourself, _yes, this is good, this is safe_, when you have so many reasons, so many memories, that tell you nothing is good, nothing is safe? More to the point, you don’t deserve anything good, because everything good you ever had died because of you. 

_So make it stop._

Deacon’s eyes open and fix on the rust-stained ceiling above him. MacCready had been right, that night, that the only way Deacon’s tried protecting the things he cares about is by running from them, or keeping his distance from them. Move in and out of HQ, and everywhere else, like a fleeting shadow. Never stay too long. Don’t let the conversations turn serious. Don’t let the stories be true. 

But there’s more than one way to protect something. MacCready had tried to tell him that. Because when MacCready found something — someone — he cared about, he fought for it. Put himself right on the front line and fought until he couldn’t. Even if he didn’t understand what he was fighting, he understood what he was fighting for. And even if Deacon can’t believe he himself deserves someone like that, he believes MacCready does. Someone that would fight for him. With him. Right alongside him. Someone that gives him the kind of trust he keeps putting in Deacon. Someone that loves him out loud. Someone that loves him like they mean it. And god, Deacon really fucking means it.

He’s spent all this time thinking he needs to get up the balls to get out of the way so MacCready can find that someone. He’s never been brave enough to ask himself: can _he_ be that someone?

He thinks he wants the answer to be yes.

Oh wow. Okay. Fuck. He’s going to need to… sit, with that. How does he even start?

He pushes off the door, nudging his pack toward the bed with his foot. It slumps over, and a few shirts tumble out onto the floor. He sighs and leans down to pick them up. As he lifts the first, the tiny model train rolls out from the beneath it. Deacon sets the shirt on the bed and picks it up. He looks at it for a moment. Then he turns, looking instead at the dresser against the wall behind him. He walks over, slowly, and pulls open a drawer. He digs under the folded clothes until his fingers brush the bag waiting beneath them, at the very back. He tugs it free, elbowing the drawer closed again. The bag rattles quietly in his grip.

He looks down at it for a long moment. Finally, he carries it over to the shelves across from the bed. They stare back at him, as bare as he left them, a thin layer of dust resting over the metal. He blows lightly, scrunching his nose up and coughing as the dust vaults into the air. Then he reaches up and sets the train on the edge of one of them, right at eye level. He studies it there for a moment. Then he carefully reaches down and pries open the bag. Piece by piece, he sets each one of the things inside—each little reminder—back where he’d had them before. 

From down the hall, he hears, “You ready, Deacon?” 

He sets the glasses from Quincy on the shelf last of all, sliding them carefully together. Then he steps back to look at the whole.

“Almost.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1) I kept Glory's dialogue from this mission almost completely intact. I don't think you get that comment about "your assembly instructions were a lot more fun" unless you haven't really run with the Railroad yet, or at least I didn't get it in any of my playthroughs, but I HAD to find a way to get that line in there.
> 
> 2) Beta comments on the adventures with Glory included: "Oh no, Deacon's nightmare, his family likes Mac better than they like him" and I had a giggle
> 
> 3) The deathclaw vs. radscorpion cage match was an actual thing I saw while I was going through the Glowing Sea in my game. I've found it in more than one game so I think it's probably semi-scripted, but I was riveted the first time I found it, watching through my scope. The radscorp won, which like, DAMN.
> 
> Chapter 21 is, despite its best efforts, finished, and will go up once I get a draft for Chapter 22. I am determined not to make you guys wait a month this time. <3


	21. Chapter 21

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Deacon finalizes all his contingency plans. And Anthony has his last hurrah.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> RAISE YOUR HAND IF YOU WANT TO SEE YOUR FAVES IN FANCY PARTY CLOTHES. My friends, I am here to deliver. Apologies in advance this chapter is like stupid long. By 10 words, it beats out 17 for longest chapter so far. It was just going to be too awkward to try and break it up, and the party got a little self-indulgent. But I couldn't bring myself to cut it up. Apologies also that the first half is like me dropping an exposition anvil on you, the party is the reward for getting though all that. 
> 
> Continuous thanks to **serenityfails** for betaing, I honestly don't know how I would have gotten this far without them. 
> 
> Warnings for this chapter: just alcohol consumption enough to get tipsy throughout the party. That's it! I also feel like I should mention that I do dunk on Danse a little bit in this chapter but, for the record, I do not hate him and I'm not trying to bash him. Anthony has a complicated relationship with him, but mostly this is Deacon's perspective and in this universe all he knows about Danse is that he's Brotherhood. So of course he's going to be prickly. Just a heads up.
> 
> ETA: Forgot to mention, in a few days it’ll be the one year anniversary of when I started this fic. And I just wanted to thank everyone that’s read and commented and just been so wonderful and enthusiastic. Having this to write has been a much needed joy and a fun challenge and it’s brought me some lovely new friends I am so grateful for. So much to love to you all.

He dreams of trees.

He’s walking through a forest of them, leafless, lifeless. They’re old, he thinks, thick around the middle, their bark like scales. Branches twist up into a sky he can’t see the color of, and he walks underneath them, their shadows passing over his face. He walks in and out of the light.

His foot catches on a root. The branches spiral, spikes of light forking across his vision, and then he slams to his knees. He doesn’t see them move, doesn’t feel it. But when he looks down, the roots arch over his thighs, around his knees. He looks behind, and finds them curved down tight over his ankles. He tugs at them, tries to tear the wood, but it doesn’t even splinter. He looks up and around as he struggles against the weight of them.

Between the trunks, he sees something move. Just a glimpse, a flash of color against the wood. A shape. A figure. And he thinks, frantically, _Run_. He doesn’t know which of them he means. 

He twists against the roots, pulling at them. Still the figure comes, a shape moving in and out of the light. Closer every time he looks up. He hears no sound, no wind and no footsteps, no rustle of cloth, no scrape of wood. But still the figure comes. 

Until it’s gone. He stops struggling, squinting at the trees. Searching them. Listening.

A hand touches his shoulder. 

A voice says his name.

Light bursts through the branches.

\----

Deacon jerks awake to sunlight striping across his eyelids, right where his sunglasses should be. He shifts his head a little, and feels the frames digging into his temple. They’re pinned between his head and something hard. Something he’s apparently draped himself over. There’s a heavy warmth on his left shoulder.

“Were you out here all night?”

The voice is soft, grated with sleep and close to his ear. He blinks the glare of the sun away and tries to lift his head. He realizes then that the warmth on his shoulder is a hand. He sits up slowly, and finds himself looking down at the coffee table. It’s buried beneath an avalanche of papers, some of them bent oddly from the weight of his head. He’s on his knees in front of it, the couch at his back, which twinges sharply as he straightens. He winces through a yawn and pulls the crooked sunglasses off his head, tossing them on the pile of papers. He looks up. 

MacCready kneels next to him, his hair pillow-mussed and frizzy. He’s wearing only a rumpled t-shirt and a pair of sweatpants that stretch thin over his knees. He raises his eyebrows a little as Deacon blinks at him. Oh, right. He’d said something, hadn’t he? 

“I—” Deacon starts, but his voice goes hoarse. The inside of his mouth feels like it’s coated in cotton. He clears his throat and tries again. “I had to finish.” 

MacCready looks at the table. “Did you?” 

Deacon follows his gaze. He sighs at the untidy sprawl of his notes. A pen line cuts across the closest page, where he’d clearly fallen asleep mid-stroke. He glances at his knees, and finds the pen on the floor next to them, halfway under the table. 

“I don’t know,” he says. He yawns again.

MacCready snorts quietly, just a soft rush of air. He stands. “I’ll make coffee.” 

“I—uh. Yeah, okay. Thanks,” Deacon mumbles. He looks back down at the papers, and begins sifting through them. 

He’s been at this for days. He’s not sure how many. 

He feels a little like he always imagined it must feel to juggle. He used to watch his dad do it, when he was young; he’d corral three of the dirty baseballs Deacon kept on his dresser and swoop them into the air in a way that felt like magic. Deacon always watched his hands intently, enthralled, trying to decipher the movements of his fingers, or trying to pick one ball to follow. And his dad would laugh and catch them all in a neat little pile between his palms and promise to teach him. He never, ever did. Deacon would sit on the bench behind the library and try to teach himself instead. One toss and the balls careened to his feet, or rolled away into the muddy sand at the edge of the shore, just down the hill. He never got the hang of it. 

It’s probably more honest to say he feels like _that_ now, like he’s watching all these baseballs he’s trying to juggle go rolling down the hill. He reaches forward, shifting his back a little when the movement jostles a sore spot under his shoulder blade, and smoothes a hand over the creased pages in front of him. Then he taps them level, squinting at his own writing like he’s trying to decode it, so he can sort the stack into piles again. He swears this made sense when he wrote it. 

He stacks every sheet marked for the Railroad into one pile and shoves it to the other side of the table. _That_ is a problem for Future Deacon. A problem for 7 O’Clock Tomorrow Morning Deacon, to be exact, who will march his way down to HQ to argue Desdemona into grudging admission that he’s right, and it’s a good plan, actually. Godspeed, Future Deacon.

The next stack dwarfs the first, every page filled with hastily-sketched maps, and crooked little arrows vaulting off to the side. A messy blend of his handwriting and MacCready’s collides in blocks of letters that drift off at strange angles. He smiles faintly down at one of the pages as he scans it over. 

This had been the part of the “Plan for Every Worst Case Scenario” order that had taken up most of MacCready’s time the last few weeks, and more than half of Deacon’s. They’d spent more nights than he cared to count bent together over the table, trying to map out each of the Minutemen’s settlements from (mostly MacCready’s) memory, and then compare them to an old map MacCready had of the Commonwealth, along with the map glowing up at them from MacCready’s PipBoy. Each arrow on the paper swooped away from the doodled settlement in the rough cardinal direction of something nearby, something that might work as a place to evacuate, if it came to that. Deacon wrote up sloping lists of instructions and supplies while MacCready sketched and erased and sketched again. And when they finished each one, off MacCready would go to clear out whatever abandoned house or factory basement or traffic tunnel they’d settled on, or strike it out and look for something better. Whenever he could, Deacon followed, but the increasingly demanding dead drops Desdemona sent him about Mercer’s empty recruitment spots kept him haunting the Third Rail and Bunker Hill and the Wet Whistle more often than not. So MacCready would take Preston, or Dogmeat, or even occasionally Anthony, whenever he found his way back to Sanctuary. Hancock, once or twice. Keeping every makeshift shelter sealed and clear will be the real challenge, but having a plan is… something. Deacon tells himself it is, at least.

He nudges that stack aside and starts to form the last, and thinnest of all: all the prep work and plans for the three of them that will be keeping watch at the interceptor once Anthony’s inside. They’d landed on this plan after a few hours of discussion and back-and-forth with Preston; it probably shouldn’t even have taken that long to realize he, MacCready, and Deacon were all going to insist on staying no matter who they had to fight about it, so they might as well just plan it that way. They could pin official reasons to it, if they really wanted to: Preston as the Minutemen’s representative, Deacon as the Railroad’s, and MacCready as the security expert. But those aren’t the real reasons. They all know it. 

And maybe it’s for the best. It made trying to sort out a way to tell a synth Anthony from a real one easier, if two of the people that knew him best were there and the third had the best shot of picking out a synth imposter in general. Deacon skims down over his notes. More worst case scenarios and what-ifs and Plan-Bs fill one side of the page and then the other, and the next, and the next. 

“If the Interceptor Breaks.” (Spare parts and tools on site, keep Tinker Tom there until it’s fixed, don’t panic.) “If the Institute Retaliates Via the Interceptor.” (Keep rotating watch shifts, keep a weapons stockpile on hand, install turrets, set traps, don’t panic. See how attached Anthony is to the power armor collection at Red Rocket. Ask when he’s in a good mood.) “If the Institute Retaliates from Outside the Walls.” (See previous entry. Make sure MacCready has a perch.) “If Something Else Attacks in the Meantime.” (Seriously, he can part with one suit of power armor. Maybe two. Try for the one painted pink. It’s pretty.) “If the Brotherhood Comes Knocking.” (Pretend not to speak English.) “If the Institute Captures Us.” (Agreement with the Minutemen to radio every 4 hours — failure to radio = evacuate all settlements. Make up an excuse to borrow a walkie for the Railroad, and lather, rinse, repeat. Separate code phrases for both. Don’t panic.) “If the Institute Captures Anthony.” (Bury this one at the bottom of the pile. Assume he’ll break. Assume he’ll turn. Assume the worst. Hope evacuation is enough. Probably a good time to panic. At least you have his power armor.) 

“If they Send Back a Synth,” is the one he apparently fell asleep writing, judging by the pen mark slashing down the page. He sighs and sets that one in the pile with all the others. 

Okay, so he hadn’t finished, but he’d made progress. He rubs his eyes, dragging his hands down to slap his cheeks a little. With another yawn, he reaches back to pull himself up off the floor and onto the couch. His knees pop loudly, and he groans at the fresh ache in his back. He hears MacCready laugh quietly from the kitchen. 

“Yeah, yeah, laugh while you can,” Deacon says. “Can’t headshot Time, Bobby.” 

“Not with your aim,” MacCready says, cutting a look over his shoulder. 

Deacon laughs. He rolls his shoulders back and tries to stretch his neck a little, watching idly as MacCready lifts the top off the boiling pot in front of him and shifts it to a cooler part of the stove. 

Deacon’s eyes drift to the fridge. Drawings are pinned there now, three of them, surrounding the letter about Duncan’s recovery. He drops his shoulders down again, unease creeping in as his eyes trace the wobbly, orange lines of a train car.

They’d fallen into a strange sort of ritual for every time they traveled apart, as the weeks dragged themselves from September into October. They haven’t talked about it, because if Deacon tries to talk about it, put a name to it, put a _reason_ behind it, then he’ll think about it, and he’ll ruin it. He doesn’t know if it feels as fragile to MacCready as it does to him, but he hasn’t brought it up either. 

Maybe ritual isn’t even the right word for it. It’s more like a game. Except it isn’t a game, either, it‘s… something. It started the first time Deacon came back from recruiting in Goodneighbor alone, to an empty house. He found the first of the new drawings pinned to the fridge, sharing a magnet with the letter MacCready had never removed. It was a drawing of a brahmin, two heads jutting out of a whirlpool of purple crayon, while a spiky sun blared down overhead. He’d stood alone in the kitchen, smiling like an idiot at it for five solid minutes, following the rays of the sun with his finger. 

It wasn’t just the picture. It was the gesture. MacCready had left it where Deacon would see it, where he couldn’t miss seeing it. Or maybe he just… didn’t care if Deacon saw it, anymore, which still meant something to Deacon. He spent two days debating with himself, wondering at the significance of it, wondering if he was just reading what he wanted into it. And then, before he could talk himself out of it, he pulled the bird-shaped salt and pepper shakers from the shelf in his room, and left them on the shelf in the living room instead, in an empty space in the corner. 

The next time he trudged in the door, the house was empty again. But the salt and pepper shakers had been moved to the dining room table, right in the center. Deacon’s pack had slid from his shoulder to his feet while he stood in the doorway and stared. The next time he came back while MacCready was gone, another week and half after that, there’d been another drawing. And Deacon had left the toy train from their run with Glory on the shelf when he’d left. He returned to find it sitting like a paperweight on the stack of MacCready’s comics, which had migrated to an end table to make room for all their notes. The third time, he’d left out a candle holder he’d found in a house they’d cleared of radroaches to serve as Greentop Nursery’s emergency shelter. It was shaped like a small palm tree, and had once been something in the neighborhood of gold, or brass. He came back to it on that same end table, with a thin white candle sitting in it. 

He should think about it, probably. He should think about how he’s freely putting out these trinkets he’s kept squirreled away, like he’s admitting something. How he’s offering up tiny pieces of himself, and MacCready’s finding a place for them, like they belong in his home. How MacCready’s offering the most precious things he has in turn for Deacon to see, and share: all he’s got to hold onto of his son. 

He should probably think about the other evenings he arrives home, when MacCready’s actually there—how he comes down the hall or looks up from the couch and smiles. He should probably think about how he has to stop himself from jumping up to meet MacCready at the door when he’s the one coming back, how he pretends he was about to cook something anyway, and coaxes MacCready into pulling up a chair. He should think about the nights they spend working together, bouncing ideas back and forth like they’ve done it for years. He should think about it. Worry about it. Pick it apart. 

He should think about the fact that after every mission, every trip, every pit stop, he’s come back to this house and nowhere else. 

But he’s tired. He’s exhausted. He’s got nine hundred other things ping-ponging through his brain, and at least three hundred of them are ways to get everyone out of this alive. If he can have this thing, this feeling, like one solid anchor to cling to in all of the frantic chaos they’re drowning in, then fuck it. He’ll put it on the list of Things to Worry About Once He’s Pacing Through the Vigil on the Coast. If they don’t all, you know, die immediately. Or whatever. 

That actually does send a sharp jolt of anxiety through his chest, even as he tries to dismiss it. Because if that’s true? Then this isn’t enough. Not by a long shot. If they die on that stupid boulder-ridden hill, if they never get to come back here… 

He looks up more sharply than he means to when he realizes MacCready is nearing the edge of the couch, two mugs in his hands. He gives Deacon the green one that says “Wicked Pissah!” in blue bubble letters around the side, and when he climbs around Deacon’s knees to sit on his other side, Deacon sees he’s cradling a white one that reads, “World’s Okayest Mom.” And he can’t help it. He cracks, barely fumbling his own mug onto the coffee table in time as he bends over in startled laughter. When he sits up again, wiping his eyes, he finds MacCready watching him with a pleased sort of smile on his face.

When he finally stops laughing, he curls his fingers back around his mug and turns to the pile of settlement plans again. He takes a sip absently as he flips through the notes, and then pauses in surprise, looking down. It’s already full of brahmin milk and just enough sugar, the way he likes it. He looks over at MacCready, who’s still watching him, now a little more apprehensive.

“All right?” he asks. 

“Perfect,” Deacon says. MacCready presses another smile into his mug and drinks. Deacon looks back down at the paper. 

“Are we really sure about Somerville?” he says, scanning over the notes twisting down the margin. “All that forest between the house and—”

“You can take a break, you know,” MacCready says. “It’ll still be there in a few minutes. Drink your coffee.” 

“I am, it’s just, maybe we should’ve checked the other side—”

“Further into the swamp?” MacCready raises an eyebrow at him. He sighs and sits up a little. “Deacon, Anthony cleared that Vault himself, he and that girl from the Combat Zone. They ran the drill four times. The way through is clear.”

“But if they come in from the west—”

“From the Glowing Sea? If they couldn’t follow that Virgil guy, they’re not going to be attacking from inside of it. They’re probably the safest settlement on the list.” 

“We don’t know where the Institute is, we have to assume that they—”

“Deacon.” 

Deacon sighs, shutting his eyes. Reaching for his sunglasses would probably be too obvious at this point. He lowers the paper into his lap. He hears MacCready’s mug join his on the coffee table, and then MacCready shifts around next to him. 

There’s a moment of silence before MacCready speaks again. “You know, I went to HQ with Anthony, this last time. I didn’t tell you. He and Desdemona talked, and she said… the only reason anyone survived the last few HQs was because of you. Your plans, you know?” 

When Deacon opens his eyes, swallowing heavily, MacCready’s looking at the pile of papers on the table. He shifts a little, rubbing his fingers into the couch cushion on the other side of his knee, like pulling the words out of himself is making him squirm. “Listen, I’m not good at this, but… we’re not gonna think of everything. We’re not like that robot you guys keep. But… people are still alive because you tried, before, even if you couldn’t save everybody. You saved _somebody_. So.” He looks up at Deacon. “The settlements are getting the best we’ve got. Okay?” 

Deacon feels his face softening. He doesn’t fight it. MacCready looks away, reaching for his coffee mug. He takes a long sip. 

“I’ll double check the boat at Taffington tomorrow. And I’ll make Zimonja run the drill again,” MacCready says. 

Deacon swallows again, and nods. MacCready is quiet a moment longer, then picks up his mug and stands. “I should probably pack.” 

“It’ll still be there in a few minutes,” Deacon says quietly, an echo. 

MacCready pauses, and then slowly sinks back down. Deacon looks over at him, giving him a weak smile. “Thanks.” 

“Don’t mention it,” MacCready says, stretching his arm over the back of the couch. 

\----

“So you want each of us in a different safehouse?” 

Desdemona bends over the war table next to Deacon, looking over the papers he’d spread carefully across it. Carrington keeps sneaking looks at them from where he’s reorganizing some kind of kit he’s got gaping open on one of his tables. Deacon fights the urge to stick his tongue out at him. That would be juvenile. He pushes his sunglasses up with his middle finger instead, and smiles when Carrington scoffs loud enough to be heard across the room. 

“Deacon, are you listening?” 

“I want to keep us as scattered as possible, yes,” Deacon says, turning his head back to Desdemona. 

She folds her arms across her chest. “Leaving HQ like this is a massive risk.”

Deacon squares his shoulders, mentally scanning back through the list of reasons he'd bullet-pointed out in his head. “Staying is worse. Think about it. This is potentially the most advanced warning we’ve ever had for an attack, if we assume the worst. Say Bullseye goes in and they capture him immediately. Option one, they just kill him, but we both know they’re not that stupid. They’ll want to know how he got in. So option two, they torture him. If it works, they get our location out of him. We can’t be here when that happens.” 

Desdemona presses her lips together. She’s silent for a moment, staring down at the papers. Then she uncrosses her arms and reaches into her back pocket for her pack of cigarettes. Yeah, there it is. She knows he’s right. 

Deacon looks up while he waits for her to light her cigarette and follow the rabbit trails of possibility he’s already tread and retread. Carrington keeps his back turned this time, shoving things into his kit a little more forcefully than necessary. Tom is talking with—or really _at_—one of the newer agents, Fox. He throws up some kind of animated gesture with his hand every few words as she tries very hard to ignore him and aim her pistol at the cardboard cutout in their makeshift shooting range. The bullet goes wide and she lowers the gun and curses. Glory lounges in the corner, boots propped up on a desk, sharpening a combat knife. Drummer Boy is in a heated debate with the coffee machine. 

And he can’t help but think about how he’s seen most of these faces running in panic. He remembers Carrington barely diving through the Farm’s back door in time, scrambling for Deacon’s hand. He remembers Drummer Boy pulling Glory out of Switchboard’s operating room by the waist as she screamed and sprayed bullets all the way down the hall. He remembers Tinker Tom’s fingers shaking on the computer keys as he tried three times to arm the security system. And every time, _every_ time, the rest of the Railroad died around them. 

Not again. He’s not letting it happen again, if they can do something about it this time.

Desdemona jabs a finger into one of the pages, tapping on it and dragging Deacon from his thoughts. “Wait, this leaves P. A. M. here alone.”

Deacon purses his lips. He’d been waiting for her to notice that. “Dez, there’s no way to move her without turning heads. She’s not a Mr. Handy, whoever takes her is immediately a bigger target and I know you won’t want her going anywhere on her own.” 

“If they hit here, and she’s alone? They’ll take her. Or destroy her. Neither is acceptable. I’m staying with her.” 

Deacon sighs. “If they hit here, and you’re with her, we lose two of our most important assets in one blow. And don’t—” Deacon holds up a hand as she opens her mouth, “—say you’re replaceable. If they capture you and they already have Bullseye? The knowledge they could get from both of you? Jesus, Dez, even if you resist, we don’t know what tech they might have. If we have the Memory Den out here, and we can access memories? I don’t want to fucking think about what they can do.” 

That shuts her up immediately. Her jaw tightens, and then she turns away to take a drag off her cigarette. “I still don’t think keeping her here is a good idea.”

Deacon leans forward on the war table, dropping his head a little to stare at his plans. “I don’t think we should put her in the safehouses either.” He frowns, thinking for a moment. “Look, what if we… what if we put her in that Low Power Mode thing she does sometimes, and we find a believable way to cover up her eyelight, make it look like a modification or something. We cover her in some dirt, lay her down… make her look like junk we were tinkering with or something.” 

Desdemona nods slowly, exhaling smoke off to the side. “That…”

“Is a risk, I know, I know.”

“I was going to say that might work.”

“...Oh.”

“We could lay some tools around her…”

“Cover up the name paint.”

“Maybe loosen a few screws… all right. Yes. I’ll have Tom do it,” Desdemona says, nodding to herself again. Deacon eases back from the table in relief.

Desdemona taps her cigarette over the ashtray. “Talk me through the plans for day-of one more time.”

“All right. Get all the necessary info down off the boards in the days before, ready whatever supplies anyone’s going to need. Day-of, we erase all the chalkboards. Carrington and Fox go to Dayton. Glory goes to Griswold. Drummer Boy and Cannon go to Stanwix. The rest of the agents can scatter among the bigger Minutemen settlements, the ones that have bunkhouses, dressed as traders. You and Tom come to the coast with us so Tom can run the machine, and then head to Mercer when it’s done. We’ll get walkies from the Minutemen, check in every four hours by code phrase. The all-clear for everyone else comes by dead drop when the time comes. We keep runners out on scouting intervals so someone can spread the word if anyone gets hit.” 

“And if we get any packages from Patriot?” 

“Business as usual, Drummer Boy just has to run it out of Stanwix but Stockton keeps the status quo, runs stay moving.” 

Desdemona breathes out, smoke curling into the air around her. She looks over at him. “Good work, Deacon.” 

Deacon gives her a lopsided smile and a little salute. She gives him a tight smile in return.

“And you’re staying on the coast,” she says, looking at him a moment longer as she draws the cigarette back to her lips. He nods.

“You have… contingency plans?”

“A novel’s worth.” 

She grins again, but then drops her eyes. “This puts you in the most danger, you realize.”

“I won’t be alone.” 

“Not really my point.” 

Deacon presses his lips together. He keeps his face as neutral as he can, not meeting her eyes under the shades. “It’s where I need to be.” 

Desdemona shifts the cigarette to her other hand. She reaches out, clasps his shoulder, and squeezes. Then she looks around the room. “Everyone, gather up. We’ve got some things to talk about.”

\----

And then, with a strange lack of fanfare, it’s done. Mostly done, anyway. MacCready makes a final tour through a few of the central settlements while Deacon shores things up with the Railroad, and Anthony and Preston make one last inspection along the coast. The plans are laid, and approved, and the interceptor is finished, and nothing is left but Anthony’s last request (and god does Deacon hate thinking of it that way). So. A party.

Deacon can’t actually remember the last time he was invited to a party. He’s weaseled his way inside a few, in the bigger cities where the walls are thick enough and the security is tight enough for a party to even be safe to have. Most of the time, parties trigger the kind of too-bright lights, too-loud noise, too-dulled senses to be anywhere in the neighborhood of wise in the smaller settlements. They might as well run up a “Please Attack Us Now” flag while they’re at it. 

So Deacon can admit it eases his nerves a little to be greeted by four guards sporting bulky rifles at Starlight’s front gate, one stone-faced senior officer demanding to see his invitation. He places the folded, handwritten little card into the guard’s hand. The guard examines the card and then hands it back, waving him through with mumbled directions to the settlement’s inn.

Because it has an inn now, apparently. Deacon had seen the building under construction the last time he passed through with Anthony, that and a dozen others in the shadow of that five story apartment building still stretching up to the sky against the old movie screen. Redirecting resources to the coast hadn’t stopped progress in the slightest, it seems. The square of shops in the center of the settlement that had been little more than a skeleton when Deacon first saw it now stands complete, covered in string lights and neon signs. It’s a hodgepodge of different materials, likely whatever they could safely drag in from nearby. One wooden stall hunches under the carved-out shell of an old train car, and that stands next to part of the fuselage of an airplane. Pieces of warehouse tin make the walls of another stall, next to the salvaged barn-wood planks of yet another. Even as the day stretches toward evening, the walkway surrounding the whole thing is every bit as crowded as the market in Diamond City. 

They’ve finished the clinic, too; walls of carefully-riveted metal stand surprisingly sturdy on the old, cracked parking lot. Deacon takes a moment to study it once he strolls past the bar that’s sprouted from the drive-in’s old concession stand. Deacon’s spent most of his visits to Starlight in that bar, or sitting just outside of it, eating a hasty lunch before they trekked on somewhere else. And even that has grown, the whole back sidewalk now walled in. 

The inn sits across the settlement from the clinic, on the other side of the square. It’s two floors, built of pieces from old warehouses, if he had to guess. Despite the haphazard appearance, it’s roomy — it must be, to hold all the extra guards patrolling the perimeter walls and all of Anthony’s party guests. 

Anthony had kept the details of the party as quiet as he could, but there’s only so much he can control when he’s throwing it on the top floor of the biggest building in his biggest settlement. It’s a double-edged sword (another expression Deacon’s never understood — Deacon’s not exactly a sword expert, here, but he’s pretty sure they all have two edges): the safest and easiest settlement to protect outside of the Castle, but also the most visible to infiltrators. Still, Anthony knows every person with an invitation, and no one’s being admitted without one, or so the back of the card claimed. The glass walls and glass ceiling of the private bar set Deacon’s teeth on edge a little, but it’d take a sniper to reach them, and the guards should be patrolling enough to find someone setting up like that. Probably. It’s a little cavalier, really, in the end, but he’s not going to begrudge Anthony a good time when it’s a real possibility that it will be his last one.

Deacon tries to shake that thought from his head as he’s led to a small room on the second floor, with a window facing the inside of the settlement. It makes him a smile a little, that Anthony thought to put him here. Somewhere to people-watch, but concealed from the outside, without the exposure of a corner room’s double windows. He sets his pack on the bed and draws the curtain immediately. 

It’s a clean room, too. That stands out. No ceiling stains, no chips in the drywall. The furniture bears the obvious signs of salvage and wear, scratched and a little faded, but it’s free of dust, and smells only of soap, and a little of paint. It’s… sort of strange, if he’s honest. The same strange feeling he felt when he first walked through Sanctuary, and into his room in MacCready’s house. When you’ve spent your life making the best of the ruins you’re left with, seeing something new built out of them, new and solid and flourishing, is startling. Strange. Hopeful, almost, and isn’t that new. 

He tells himself it’s completely unconnected to that little train of thought when he immediately wonders which room MacCready is staying in. He shakes his head, and starts unlacing his pack.

\----

The feeling only increases as he climbs the last steps up toward the bar. He smooths down the lapels of his tuxedo jacket and straightens his black bowtie as he goes. He tries to remember the last time he had an excuse to dig this thing out, and comes up blank. It’s a little tight in the arms now, and a little rumpled, but not half bad, really. He rakes his palm over the pompadour wig on his head to tame any flyaways, the last fidget he allows himself while he’s alone. Then he squares his shoulders, pulls out his invitation, and climbs up into the bar. 

He stops at the top step as he hands the guard his invitation and just… stares. He’s surrounded on all sides by the sky blushing a furious red, a few clouds streaking blue low on the horizon. It outshines the colored bulbs hanging over the bar counter at the other end of the room. Neon letters blazing between the shelves behind the counter dubs the bar the “Tip Top Tap,” a name Anthony had smiled and said was stolen the first time Deacon had spotted it from the ground. Speaking of Anthony, Deacon smiles to find him leaning on the counter between Preston and Nick Valentine, the only other occupants besides the bartender and a couple more guards. 

Deacon passes the surprisingly pristine leather couches gathered to one side of the stairs, and circles the pool table in the center of the room. Anthony pushes off from the counter and meets him in a tight hug. Deacon wonders if he’s ever going to get used to it.

“Thank you for coming,” Anthony says quietly as he squeezes Deacon’s shoulders. 

“Are you kidding?” Deacon says as he pulls away, plastering on a grin. He actually kind of means it. “An excuse to dress up in my Sunday best and mingle? Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

Anthony chuckles quietly as Deacon reaches out to shake Preston’s hand, and then Nick’s. There’s a sadness in the sound that makes something twinge in Deacon’s chest. He glances back at Anthony again under his sunglasses, without shifting his head. He immediately hates how tentative Anthony’s smile looks, and launches into the first conversation topic he can find.

“Speaking of Sunday best,” he says, spreading his arms toward Anthony, “you clean up nice, boss. Not as nice as your man here, but—” he makes a clicking noise out of the side of his mouth, “—we can’t all be blessed with abs like those.” 

Both men smile a little more broadly and laugh. There we go. He’s not lying, Anthony does look good in his pressed gray slacks and burnt orange little sweater vest, the collar of a white button-up standing up sharply at his neck. He’s combed his hair more carefully than usual, black strands slicked back from his face a little. But Preston’s the real Cinderella here: the hat and uniform are gone for the night, replaced with a creamy tan three-piece suit and slick brown shoes. The waistcoat hugs his torso in a way his long coat usually hides. He’s even got a little blue handkerchief peeking out of his breast pocket. 

“Jealous?” Anthony says, snaking an arm around Preston’s waist and pressing a kiss to his cheek before turning to wink at Deacon. Preston’s smile turns shy as he leans into Anthony’s side. There’s a playful glint that sparks in Anthony’s eye, one Deacon hasn’t spotted there since Preston was teasing him in the fishpacking plant. It’s a relief to see.

“Who wouldn’t be?” Deacon says. “Leave me the address of your fairy godmother, would you?”

Anthony laughs. Deacon circles around to the bar stool next to Nick, and says, “Come on, Valentine, let’s drown our sorrows and leave the lovebirds to it. They’ve probably got the good oil on tap for you.” 

“Smartass,” Nick says, shaking his head. 

\----

Deacon tries to pay attention to the story Nick starts telling him, about some kind of golden cricket Anthony helped him chisel off a steeple, or something. Really, he tunes in for whole seconds at a time, even. But every time someone new climbs up the steps across the room, his eyes snap up and fix there, waiting. 

God, it’s only been a few days. They’ve been apart longer than that just in the last month. He has no idea what’s making him want to fidget off of his stool, his toes clenching in his shoe as though that might keep his knee from bouncing. Around the ninth time someone else wanders up the steps, grabbing his attention, he tries to take another casual sip of whiskey and tune back into Anthony and Nicky’s Adventures in Entomology. Instead, the glass hits his chin, dribbling whiskey onto his lower lip. He snaps forward to keep it from leaking on his suit, and then drops the glass back down on the bartop. He snatches a napkin to dab his mouth, and glances back up with it halfway to his lips when Nick starts laughing.

“You know, it’s been a long time since I’ve seen you this flustered,” Nick says, yellow eyes fixed on Deacon. 

“You’d be flustered too if you almost got whiskey all over your only good tux,” Deacon says, flinging the napkin down. “You know how hard it is to find one of these intact?” 

“You’re thick as thieves with Sanctuary’s resident seamstress, and you’re worried about the tux because you’ve got someone to impress, which is also why you’re watching the stairs like it’s your job,” Nick says, slowly smirking at him. “Come on, Deacon, who do you think you’re talking to?” 

“Showoff,” Deacon grumbles, snatching his glass back up again and swallowing what’s left in one gulp.

Nick just keeps smirking. “You would know. Though I really figured you would’ve stopped me the third time I told the story and threw the aliens in for fun.” 

Deacon’s jaw works before he remembers to keep his face still, and Nick just laughs again. Deacon twists around to look for the bartender, waving his empty glass when he catches his eye. Nick pats his shoulder and moves off his stool, wandering into the crowd.

If nothing else, this has been giving Deacon time to observe the motley crew of people Anthony calls his friends. He finds himself a little surprised by the collection, altogether. Like the fact that Piper Wright now sits four stools down from him, perched at the bar’s curved corner in a green button-down dress belted tight to her waist. Deacon had read her article about Anthony, of course. Much as he takes pains to avoid catching her eye on the occasions he finds himself in Diamond City, it’s harder to avoid stumbling on some mud-streaked copy of her newspaper fluttering down a side street. He might even grudgingly admit that reading it had helped a little in the info-gathering stage of Operation Raid the Fridge (which still would’ve been a better name than Project Wanderer, _Dez_). He just never would’ve guessed them close enough for her to be sitting here now, talking amiably with Preston.

And go ahead and contrast that with Cait, that pit fighter that beats the shit out of raiders for a living. Which, all right, now that he’s put it that way, maybe she does have something in common with Anthony. Her concession to the special occasion is wearing a gray pinstripe vest noticeably absent of dirt, and absolutely nothing else underneath it, along with a fairly nice pair of black pants. She’s standing next to one of the couches with her arms folded, which pushes out her frankly ridiculous biceps, and talking with Hancock as he lounges against the couch’s arm. Deacon had learned she and Anthony were friends when Anthony announced he was taking her with him to clear out the Vault near Somerville Place, and Deacon had sworn he heard a record scratch in his own head. 

There are others milling around too. A few he recognizes from Sanctuary, like Anne, for one, and Weston, and Sturges. He sees the woman he thinks he recognizes as Glory’s friend, and takes a long sip of whiskey in Glory’s honor at that one. 

And then another flash of movement on the stairs catches his eye. And he freezes. 

MacCready climbs to the top step and hands the guard his invitation, glancing around him. Deacon stares. He’s left off the hat, and his hair is clean and thick and swept back from his face. He’s wearing dark grey slacks that cling to his thighs, and a black waistcoat over a white button-up. It’s hard to tell from a distance, but he looks like he took the time to shave away the stubble that usually clings to his jaw when he’s too busy to worry about it. All of that is enough on its own to grab Deacon’s attention and hold it. But over the waistcoat and shirt, he’s wearing Deacon’s leather jacket.

His eyes find Deacon’s shades across the room. He slips his hands into the jacket’s pockets as a small smile softens his face. Deacon reminds himself to breathe, and raises his glass a little in answer, turning to slide off the stool. 

But then he hears MacCready’s name called over the din and the music piping in from the jukebox in the corner. Hancock comes swooping in to smack him on the shoulder, and then pull him in for a hug. MacCready flashes Deacon a look over Hancock’s shoulder. Deacon just nods vaguely and resettles on the stool, taking another drink instead. He’s going to need it.

\----

The whiskey starts to catch up with him about the third time he tries crossing the room. The first time, Anne had intercepted him, tugging him back to the bar to gossip about Piper’s dress and Jun Long’s rumpled suit with the hole in one armpit. Once he’d politely ducked out of discussing the marvel of tailoring that is, apparently, Hancock’s ancient red frock coat, he’d stopped short as he watched Weston drag MacCready into whatever animated conversation he was having with Sturges. Finally, he sees Anthony lean over and mumble something to MacCready, nodding toward the pool table in the center of the room. MacCready smirks and nods, pushing to his feet. Deacon grabs his drink and maneuvers himself to the end of the bar, claiming a stool facing the table and turning to press his back to the counter. 

He looks up as he settles. His gaze instantly meets MacCready’s where he now stands near one of the corner pockets, in the middle of slipping the leather jacket down his shoulders. Deacon’s dimly aware of Hancock and Cait circling toward the rack of pool sticks, but he can’t take his eyes off MacCready as he carries the jacket to the empty stool at Deacon’s left. He steps close, letting his thigh brush against Deacon’s knee. 

“Keep an eye on that for me?” he says, patting the jacket once, seeking Deacon’s gaze under the shades. 

“For you? I’ll spare two,” Deacon says, and if it’s a little hushed, and scrapes a little in his throat, well. MacCready just grins, and reaches down to unbutton the cuff of his shirt. He rolls the sleeve up to his elbow, and then starts on the other, all while standing right at Deacon’s side. And Deacon’s tipsy thoughts narrow down to: _forearms, holy fuck_, like he’s a swooning heroine in some subpar Victorian novel he only read half of as a kid before tossing it to the mirelurks with an eyeroll. When Deacon finally drags his eyes back up to MacCready’s face, he catches the way his grin turns knowing before he holds up a hand and catches the stick Anthony tosses at him. Deacon fumbles back for his drink. 

The song on the jukebox switches over, piano keys tripping gently up an octave and back down, and Deacon loses the thread of the conversation. He watches Hancock slip the pool balls into the rack, watches Anthony lean down to brace the end of his stick over his thumb. He hears Cait say something, and he misses the words. But MacCready laughs, a warm sound over Billie Holiday crooning in the corner, and Deacon feels it settle pleasantly in his chest. 

A few rounds in, someone steps up next to Deacon and asks the bartender for a beer. And then just… stays. Deacon tilts his head back and finds himself blinking up at Preston. He’s got his elbow on the counter near Deacon’s as he waits for his drink, but he’s looking off toward the pool table. 

“Think we oughta be jealous?” he says, jerking his chin. Deacon’s head swivels back around to see MacCready and Anthony, heads bent together, laughing quietly as they watch Cait stretch down to take a shot. 

“One way to find out,” Deacon says, letting the “we” go by without comment even though it makes his throat tighten. He tugs lightly on the lapel of Preston’s suit jacket. Loud enough to be heard, he says, “Come on, sweet cheeks, pucker up.” 

Preston laughs, smacking Deacon’s shoulder with the back of his hand. Deacon makes a few squeaky kissing noises at him before he sits back and grins. 

“Darling, how could you?” Anthony calls. He presses a hand to his chest, feigning hurt. “And on my _birthday_.” 

“What can I say, the sunglasses really do it for me,” Preston calls back, and Anthony leans back like he’s taken a blow, clutching at his sweater vest. Next to him, MacCready rolls his eyes. 

Deacon lets another round go by, watching MacCready’s waistcoat tighten around his shoulders when leans down to line up his shot. It sinks into the intended pocket with a muted little thud, smooth as anything, and he high-fives Anthony as Hancock groans behind him. Deacon’s eyes linger on Anthony for a moment after that, hazily pleased to see the genuine smile.

“So how _did_ you melt the ice cube?” Deacon asks Preston, gesturing with his glass toward Anthony when Preston furrows his brow.

Preston sips his beer. His eyes get a glassy, distant look. “Luck. Only way I can figure it. Just blind, stupid luck.”

“Don’t sell yourself short,” Deacon says. “Have you seen yourself in that suit?”

Preston smiles and looks down at his beer bottle. Cheers erupt from Hancock and Cait on the other side of the table, but Preston doesn’t even look up. His smile turns a little wistful. 

“I don’t know,” he finally says, quiet enough that Deacon tips his head a little closer to hear him over the music. “I fell for him pretty fast. Hard not to, when he swept in out of nowhere and saved us all, and then just… kept doing it. And he acted like anyone would do it, like it wasn’t some kind of miracle he kept showing up.” 

His gaze flicks over to the window. It’s dark now, and Deacon can just barely make out the warm light reflecting up the towering projector above the old concession stand. Preston says, “I think it was here, actually. The first time I knew. We came here to clear it out.” 

“Scrapping?” Deacon says. 

Preston shakes his head. “No, before we could even do that. It was infested with molerats.” 

“Oh, sure. I get it. Nothing screams romance like a little game of Whack-A-Mole.” 

Preston chuckles. Deacon hears the clatter of two balls colliding their way into a pocket, and then a fist banging against the wood. 

“I don’t know what it was,” Preston continues. “Just… the way we’d fight together, the way we fit, we just clicked. And he was brave, and confident, and kind—”

“And totally dreamy, you can say it.”

Preston gives him a sheepish little smile. He looks down at the bottle again, lips twitching a little like he’s debating opening them. Then he says. “I just didn’t think I even remembered how to feel like this.” He frowns. “That... probably sounds weird.” 

Deacon’s eyes do a traitorous little jump to land on MacCready. He’s standing near the window behind the table, swiping the tip of his stick with chalk. 

“Yeah, super weird,” Deacon says, quiet. Preston glances at him, the corner of his mouth twitching up a little, too knowing. 

Deacon takes a drink, and then gently rolls the glass between his hands. Anthony bumps MacCready with his hip, saying something Deacon can’t hear that gets them both smiling. Deacon feels a spike of guilt shoot through his gut. 

“I’m sorry,” he says suddenly. Preston’s beer stops halfway to his lips, and he frowns, confused. Deacon keeps his head turned toward him, but his eyes land on the window behind him. “For, you know, getting him into this mess.” _For helping take him from you._

In his periphery, Preston shifts. “He got himself into this mess, Deacon.” 

“I just mean—” 

“He was running headfirst into this mess the minute he woke up in the Vault,” Preston says, and Deacon’s mouth slowly closes. “I guess I can’t say it was inevitable, but this is what he’s wanted from the beginning.” 

Another cheer rises from around the table. Neither of them looks over. Deacon starts rolling his glass between his palms again. “I tried to convince him to let me go instead.”

“I know.” A moment passes, and he sighs. “I can’t pretend I’m not scared, or didn’t wish… there was some other way. But if it wasn’t him going, there’d be someone else worrying in my place.” 

“You don’t always have to take one for the team, Preston,” Deacon says. 

Preston gives him a sidelong look. “Says the man who just told me he volunteered to walk into the fire first.” 

The glass stills in Deacon’s hands. He presses his lips together, ducking his head a little. “Touche.”

There’s a question burning on the back of Deacon’s tongue. He won’t ask it. But he wants to, with a sudden fierce need he doesn’t recognize. He wants to ask if it was worth it. If Anthony doesn’t come back, if these are the last days he gets, was it worth it? Was it worth it to fall in that kind of love if their days together were always numbered? If this was all they were ever going to get? He doesn’t ask. He won’t. When he looks up, Preston’s watching Anthony again, his eyes going soft, a little smile tugging at his lips. And Deacon thinks he might know the answer anyway. 

He hears another cheer, and this one goes on long enough that he finally looks back at the pool table. Hancock’s hanging his head, shaking it, and Cait hits the table with her fist again. She leans the stick against it and stalks away while Anthony thumps a fist on MacCready’s back. The two of them wander to the end of the table and follow Hancock toward the bar. 

“I knew we should’ve split up the snipers,” Hancock says when he reaches the corner of the counter. “Damn hawkeyes.” 

“Just be happy you didn’t take me up on a bet,” MacCready says, plucking the jacket off the stool and sliding onto it himself. 

“I didn’t get this far without knowing a sucker bet when I see one,” Hancock says. He accepts a beer from the bartender with a nod and the jangle of a few caps. 

“And yet, you still played,” Anthony says. He leans into Preston’s side, smiling. 

“Yeah, yeah,” Hancock says, shaking his head again. He wanders away toward the couches, and drops down next to Nick. 

Preston murmurs something Deacon can’t really hear as the music swings up into loud brass again. It gets him a soft smile and a kiss from Anthony, who then reaches over and steals his beer. Preston just rolls his eyes and lets him. 

Deacon can hear MacCready shifting around next to him. He tries very hard to keep his eyes forward. MacCready’s close enough now that Deacon can faintly smell smoke, and a hint of soap. 

“You know, Hancock’s right, no fair putting you two on the same team,” Deacon says, more to distract himself than anything else.

“He knew the job was dangerous when he took it,” Anthony says. He laughs a little to himself and searches around the circle of them for a flicker of recognition, the way he always does when he makes a reference no one gets. Then he sighs, looking idly back across the room. His smirk slowly reappears. “Speaking of…” 

Deacon follows his gaze. His eyes land on a man he can’t believe he didn’t notice sooner. Hovering as far into the corner as he can press himself without toppling the plastic ficus tree behind him is a dark-haired man in a Brotherhood of Steel jumpsuit. He’s maybe the only person in the room without even the slightest nod toward formal wear. He’s holding a mostly-full glass of beer with both hands, hovering it away from his chest like he can’t decide if he wants to drink it or toss it in the ficus pot when no one’s looking. And he’s staring, wide-eyed, at the back of Hancock’s head, his face redder than a Nuka Cola poster. 

“You actually invited that guy?” MacCready says, incredulous. 

“He has his moments,” Anthony says. “I also… didn’t think he’d actually come.” 

Deacon feels MacCready’s elbow press up against his where it rests on the bartop. It’s only then that Deacon realizes how tense his shoulders suddenly are. He turns his head a little to find MacCready looking at him. MacCready raises an eyebrow, frowning a little. A silent question. 

Logically, Deacon knows nothing is going to happen. Anthony wouldn’t have asked the guy here if he was a threat. Or, well, an _open_, actively hostile one, at least. Or if he was quicker on the uptake. Because if he hasn’t made Anthony by now, he’s sure as shit not going to figure out Deacon. Probably. He’s certainly not going to do it from all the way over there, looking like he’s inches from throwing his beer at Hancock’s hat. And that image gets Deacon to relax completely, because he’d fork over so many caps to watch that go down.

MacCready’s still watching him, so Deacon gives him a small smile. He nods once, the barest movement of his head, and presses their arms a little tighter together before he shifts away. 

“Is this the one that ran down a bloatfly like he was getting a medal of honor for it?” Deacon asks. 

MacCready snorts into his beer, grin spreading over his lips. “God, that was the best day of my life.” 

Anthony sighs again, frowning at them. Deacon checks on the other side of the room in time to see Hancock sling an arm across the back of the couch, and Brotherhood Bro actually flinches back, coming dangerously close to tipping his glass. Deacon hears Preston smother a laugh into his hand, but MacCready doesn’t bother, laughing loudly in Deacon’s ear. Deacon doesn’t fight off his smile. He sees Hancock look back over his shoulder, and Brotherhood Bro turn a very interesting shade of purple and turn his head. 

“Assholes, all of you,” Anthony says, keeping his voice low. “I’m going to talk to him.” 

“Try not to have too much fun,” Deacon calls after him. Anthony throws up his middle finger behind his back. Preston laughs and follows.

Of course, that leaves Deacon alone with MacCready, which may have been a significant tactical error on his part. He’s so painfully aware when MacCready shifts again, and swallows what’s left of his beer, and tugs at the jacket where it lays over his lap. Deacon almost jumps when he feels another nudge on his elbow. 

“Get some air with me?” MacCready says. He jerks his head toward the door that leads out onto the deck on top of the movie screen. 

An old instinct pulls at him to say no. Don’t be seen together in public. Don’t be seen _leaving_ together in public. Not like this. Not with so many eyes. Not with the Brotherhood literally standing across the room. But then again, they’ve been traveling together for weeks. Everyone here from Sanctuary knows they share a house. These are Anthony’s friends. 

And consider: he just really wants to say yes. 

So he does. 

\----

The night is cool when Deacon steps outside, an autumn chill biting into the breeze without the sun to soften it. Deacon likes it. It feels good against his whiskey-warm cheeks. 

A few old patio tables dot the upper deck, rusty metal lattice criss-crossing the tabletops. It’s hard to ignore how high up he is, the screen rising above even the tops of the trees that scatter out over the hill behind it. He picks the table furthest from the railing and pulls out a chair, wincing when it scrapes loudly across the deck floor. He pushes his shades up on his head as he sinks down, throwing a careful glance all around what he can see of the ground. He doesn’t see any movement, but the night is settling in thick, now. 

A moment later, he hears a short burst of voices and music behind him as the door opens, then swings shut again. Deacon leans his head back a little, looking up at the handful of stars, listening to MacCready’s footsteps as he circles around to the empty chair next to Deacon’s. Something heavy thunks down on the table. Deacon sits up to be greeted by a bottle of vodka, and MacCready setting down a pair of shot glasses next to it. He’s shrugged the jacket back on.

MacCready gives Deacon a small smile when he catches him looking. He turns the bottle a little, so Deacon can see the label in the faint light drifting down from the bar. It’s the same brand he found in the apartment in Quincy. 

“White flag?” MacCready says quietly as he sits. 

Deacon purses his lips. “Are we fighting?”

MacCready doesn’t answer. He fiddles with the bottle, and then pours them both a shot. He slides Deacon’s toward him, and then lifts his own. Deacon takes the hint, clinks the glasses together, and throws back the shot with a grimace. 

“Think you’ve been avoiding me tonight,” MacCready finally says, setting his glass back on the tabletop. He shifts in his chair and pulls out his cigarettes.

“Kind of the opposite, actually. But every time I tried to get across the room, someone got in the way,” Deacon says. He takes the cigarette MacCready offers. 

MacCready lights first Deacon’s cigarette, and then his own. He leans back as he takes a long drag, the ends of his hair brushing the back of his chair. Deacon watches the smoke billow from his lips. 

“No one else here now,” MacCready says. 

“No.”

Deacon takes a drag of his own. And he lets himself look. _Really_ look. His eyes trace the clean line of skin along MacCready’s jaw. He follows the curve of his nose, then the slope of his neck, and down his shoulders. The seam of the leather sleeve curls gently around his elbow, down to the cuff, where those long fingers pinch the butt of the cigarette. When Deacon looks up again, MacCready’s eyes are lidded, like Deacon had traced that path with his hands instead. 

“You look good, Bobby,” he breathes.

MacCready’s lips twitch up behind his hand. His eyes roam over Deacon’s face too, and follow that same winding path. “So do you.” 

They smoke in silence for a while. Their eyes stray out into the distance, to the Corvega towers winking at them to the east, and up to the dim, scattered stars. Then back to each other, trading smiles, lingering. 

Finally MacCready sits up. “I have something for you,” he says, perching the cigarette between his teeth. He reaches into the inner pocket of the jacket, and pulls out what looks like a small book, hard cover. He sets it on the table.

“For me?” Deacon reaches for it. It’s old. Older than the War, and the one before that. The cover is rough-textured and faded, the golden lettering on the title scraped. But it’s still clear enough to read when he tilts it into the light: _The Scarlet Pimpernel_.

“I found it while I was clearing out an old building,” MacCready says, “and I figured… well, I guess it’s not exactly a stakeout we’re going on, but close enough. So you’ll need something to read.” 

Deacon traces the letters, smiling faintly. “Well, shit, Bobby. Congratulations. You actually found a book I’ve never read.” 

MacCready snorts, drawing his cigarette back to his lips. “You said that like it’s supposed to be impressive.” 

“Listen, I devoured that whole library when I was a kid, probably twice over,” Deacon says. 

MacCready exhales around a smirk. “Is this the part where I say ‘Oh, Deacon, your brain’s just so _big_, I can’t believe what a big, meaty brain you have!’”

Deacon’s eyes widen with delight at the voice MacCready puts on. He laughs so hard he nearly chokes on smoke, his eyes watering. 

“Oh my god,” he says, swiping at his eyes, another laugh bursting from his lips. MacCready reaches over and thumps his back a few times. “Oh my _god_, Bobby, that’s the best thing anyone’s ever said to me.”

MacCready chuckles a little, watching Deacon recover. He stretches his arm out until he can tap the ash of his cigarette over the railing. Once Deacon’s fallen quiet again, he says, “I read a little, when I had the time. It just—um. It kind of reminded me of… of you.”

“Of me?” Deacon says, blinking up at him. 

“Yeah. The main guy, he has this whole secret life where he dresses up in disguise and tries to help people without some big powerful organization finding out,” MacCready says. 

“Hey, spoilers,” Deacon says, grinning. “You read more than a little, huh?” 

MacCready shrugs. “Still don’t know what the heck a pimpernel is, though.” 

Deacon laughs. He runs his fingers over the cover again. Quietly, he says, “Thank you, MacCready.” 

MacCready looks over at him. His smile is soft as he gives Deacon a little nod. 

They let the night drift on around them as they sit like that, side by side. They smoke until their cigarettes burn down.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1) In case you've never spent much time in Boston, "Wicked Pissah" is kind of a touristy in-joke about the accent and slang, they sell like a million tourist gifts with that phrase on them. It means like, "really great," either sarcastically or not. Though honestly I lived in Boston for several years and never heard anyone use that full phrase for real.
> 
> 2) In keeping with the city in-jokes, "Tip Top Tap" is a bar at the top of the Allerton Hotel in Chicago. Which is where Anthony's from. As am I. Look, I gotta shoehorn in a reference here and there, I get homesick. Anyway it's been closed since the 60s but they keep the sign on for it all the time.
> 
> 3) The outfit MacCready is in is the "black vest and slacks," but I picture it tailored to him so it doesn't look so bulky, with the vest buttoned up. Also I actually do have the sweater vest I described in Anthony's inventory at all times for the charisma boost when I need it. Fun fact.
> 
> 4) “He knew the job was dangerous when he took it” is a Super Chicken reference, and if you got that our friendship just leveled up.
> 
> 5) Shoutout to my friends on twitter who, despite not knowing a thing about Fallout and having no context for this fic, helped me pick out a book for MacCready to give Deacon. 
> 
> Chapter 22 was a slog to finish but it's done at last, and it'll go up when I get 23 done. If that one sticks to the plan, I'll put the chapter count at officially 24 the next time I post. In the mean time, if you want to chat about the fic or Fallout or just say hey, come hang out with me on twitter @galaxiesgone or on tumblr @electricshoebox. Stay safe!


	22. Chapter 22

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anthony goes into the interceptor. The boys keep a tense vigil.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Uh, surprise? I don't know either, Chapter 23 came together really quickly somehow, so... here we go, time to take on the Institute. I've put the chapter count officially at 24. There will be an epilogue as well, because they've earned it. Holy shit, we're so close. 
> 
> My thanks as ever to beta extraordinaire **serenityfails**, especially for helping me sort out the beginning of this one, as it fought me to the end. 
> 
> Warnings for this chapter: PTSD-related nightmare, implied more than described; blood and gore related to shooting an animal, with some briefly graphic descriptions; brief mention of vomit, no description.

The night before Anthony is set to use the interceptor, it rains. 

Deacon doesn’t believe in omens. He believes in warning signs, bad feelings, and red flags. Not omens. If he did, this one would be hard to ignore, because the second Anthony steps over the threshold of Mercer Safehouse behind Preston, and Deacon, and MacCready, the rain kicks up into a downpour. It isn’t an omen, Deacon reminds himself. It’s rotten luck. Maybe literally, because it doesn’t smell any better than the last time he was standing in this hallway. At least this time the second floor has all its walls, and the roof isn’t leaking. Or so they claim. He gives the guard that greets them—Vladi, from Sanctuary, he realizes—a dubious look.

While Anthony chats with Vladi, somehow still shouldering on the General persona with a congenial smile, Deacon flexes his toes in his damp right sneaker and winces when it tweaks a sore spot in the arch of his foot. Almost eleven hours of walking, all told, from Sanctuary to Mercer, with a pit stop in Diamond City for noodles. His stomach growls again just thinking about them. God, his feet _hurt_. He tugs at the strap of his pack, like that might ease the ache in his shoulders, too. He’s getting too old for shit like this. Finally, Vladi gives Anthony a salute, and a “yes, General,” and Anthony smiles and salutes back and doesn’t let his shoulders slump until Vladi disappears onto the porch.

It really should’ve been a ten hour walk. But Anthony kept stopping on hillsides to look at the settlements they were passing, the ones he’d built. Or stopping to look at the skyline, a jagged shadow against grey clouds. No one had the heart to push him on.

Deacon had tried to keep him talking, at least, every time he got that distant look in his eye. Tried asking about baseball, and football, and what Diamond City looked like under another name. He tried asking about cars, about Anthony’s favorite, about food he misses. He’s not sure it did much, in the end, but it got Anthony to smile back at him a few times.

Sore as he is, Deacon wouldn’t have dared suggesting they split the journey into two days. No one else had, either. He was pretty sure they all had an unspoken agreement to just... do it. Not to stretch this over two sleepless nights, instead of just one. 

Deacon’s eyes drift automatically to the stairs at the thought of sleep. Only two rooms empty on short notice, Vladi had said, when Deacon tuned in for a moment. And it’s the last night before Anthony—before he goes. He and Preston get exclusive rights to one of them. Obviously. 

So.

“I’ll take the floor,” Deacon says later, after a dinner of mirelurk cakes eaten while they all slumped together in the house’s old dining room. The food sits heavy in his stomach. Or maybe that’s something else.

MacCready slings his pack down and looks up at Deacon. He’s so tired it’s visible, his shoulders bowing as though the exhaustion sits heavy on top of them, his eyelids drooping. He drops down hard on the edge of the bed and swings a foot up over his knee, plucking at the laces of his boot.

“Deacon, I’ve had your drool on my shoulder,” he says to the tongue of his boot as he wrenches it loose, kicking the whole thing to the floor. He shifts and starts on the other. “I think we can share a bed for one night.”

He digs his thumb into the ball of his foot over his dirty sock, hissing a little. It takes both of them a second to realize Deacon’s mouth has fallen open. He snaps it shut hard enough to click, but MacCready’s watching him do it. He smirks. He’s thrown Deacon off with that little throwaway comment, and now he _knows_ it. The exhaustion melts back for a moment, and MacCready just looks smug. God, that should not be such a good look on him.

Then again, anything’s better than the tense frown he’d left Sanctuary with. Deacon’s not sure he’d looked much better. Preston and Anthony certainly hadn’t. So teasing a smirk out of MacCready now feels like a win, even if it comes by way of MacCready saying something that makes Deacon want to go sleep out on the porch. 

“I don’t drool,” he says, folding his arms.

MacCready just keeps grinning. He sweeps an arm back behind him, over the bed. “Prove it.”

And that’s… kind of that, really.

The lamp clicks off, and the rain taps on, and now that there’s nowhere else to walk, no other steps to take, nothing else to _do_, there’s nothing to keep Deacon’s head quiet. He lays on his back, staring up at a ceiling he can’t really see in the darkness, and knows with a kind of leaden dread settling in his gut that he probably isn’t sleeping tonight.

They’re laying in the room Deacon laid claim to weeks ago, when the house was still a shell. In the bed he’d tossed and turned in, night after night, after MacCready first kissed him, replaying MacCready’s words in his head over and over. The irony of laying across this exact bed from MacCready now isn’t lost on him. Christ, is it ever not lost on him. His thoughts go crashing into that, first, and he has to stop himself from sighing aloud. 

When they left that morning, Anthony gave them a reminder Deacon didn’t need. “Once I go through, no matter what happens, assume the Institute is watching, and listening. Don’t do anything you wouldn’t want them to see, and don’t say anything you wouldn’t want them to hear.” And Deacon had pretended not to see the way MacCready’s eyes flicked over to him. Kept his head turned toward Anthony, to pretend he wasn’t looking right back. He wonders if MacCready knew anyway.

He doesn’t look at him now, though he feels the pull of it across the pillow. He closes his eyes instead, and tries not to think, _What if this is it? What if this is the last night we get? What if this is the last chance, and all I did was argue with him about sleeping on the floor? Like a fucking coward?_

In the morning, Desdemona and Tinker Tom will make the walk to the coast from the Church, the last two to leave it. They’ll crawl out through the maintenance tunnel and lock the door, tipping a desk up in front of it. And when they reach Mercer, the six of them will walk together along the coast to the edge of old Salem. Behind a ring of thick, wooden walls, the interceptor waits for them. 

And Anthony will climb into it and do something insane. And then… 

And then.

He drifts a little, to the sound of the rain — not quite asleep, his thoughts elongating and spinning and folding in on themselves, shapeless and strange. He surfaces again when the rain stops, and a door whines open and shut downstairs. Footsteps set the wood floor creaking until they reach the kitchen, and quiet. 

MacCready shifts next to him. Deacon feels the bed shake a little, and turns to see MacCready rolling forward to the edge and leaning down. His fingertips fumble along until they thump lightly against something that scrapes against the floor when he picks it up. He shifts backward a little, and then light illuminates the shape of him, green and too bright — his PipBoy. The dial clicks a few times. Then MacCready pauses, and sighs, and the light disappears. He sets the PipBoy gently back on the floor. Checking the time, if Deacon had to guess. He wonders what it is. MacCready settles again on his side, his back to Deacon, and Deacon tries to close his eyes again. 

“Deacon.”

It’s just a whisper, but it saws through the silence without warning. Deacon’s pulse ratchets up and he tenses. He considers pretending to be asleep. Then he gives up and opens his eyes. “Yeah?”

“Stop worrying so loud.”

Deacon blinks at the shadow of MacCready’s back. His muscles release, and he huffs out a quiet laugh. “I’ll try to keep it to a dull roar, Sleeping Beauty.”

MacCready turns back over, shifting his shoulders against the mattress. A moment of silence passes, and with the way MacCready’s head tips, Deacon thinks he’s trying to look at him through the darkness. Then he says, “We’re gonna get through this.”

He sounds like he knows it. Like there isn’t even another option to consider. Like he’d bully the other options out of existence if he had to. Deacon bites the inside of his cheek. “Well, I like the confidence, Bobby.”

“You should try it some time.” Deacon can hear the raised eyebrows.

He smiles a little, though he knows MacCready can’t see it. “I think I’ll leave it to the expert.”

MacCready sighs. “Always making me do all the work.”

Well… shit. Deacon looks away, down to the crease in the sheets where MacCready’s hand rests between them. “You should go back to sleep, Bobby.” 

“You first.”

He could say something. Right now. Reach for that empty hand on the bed between them and say… _something_. The truth. The whole storm-tossed ocean of it. 

Too sincere, too long after MacCready spoke, Deacon finally says, “Just for you.”

Then he turns away, curling onto his side, to look out the window. 

Without the rain, the muffled sound of the sea comes to him from somewhere below the house. It barrels forward into the rocks, then slides away. Meeting and parting. Meeting and parting. He listens until MacCready’s breathing evens out again behind him, and syncopates with the surf, and grinds slowly into a smoker’s snore. He listens until the sky begins to lighten, reluctant and grey, like it doesn’t want to start the day anymore than Deacon does. He never does fall asleep. 

\----

The jagged circle of guard walls rises up over the cliffside as they follow the road around the beach. The wood — fresh, unweathered, cut from the sparse forest up the hill — looks sharp and bright against the cloudy sky, drawing his eyes the moment he rounds the bend. As if it didn’t stand out enough already. He swallows, anxiety and black coffee arguing in his empty stomach.

Desdemona walks ahead of him with Anthony, the two of them talking in low voices. The wind rolling in off the ocean carries away whatever snippets Deacon might’ve caught. But when he sees her pass Anthony a holotape that he tucks into the inner pocket of his jacket, Deacon figures he knows. She’s trying to make him find Patriot. She’s trying to believe this isn’t a one-way trip. 

A lone guard pulls the wooden gate open when they trudge up the hill. One of the Mercer boys, pulled for construction duty. He’ll walk back to Mercer with Desdemona and Tinker Tom when it’s done. _And then there were three_.

The wall stands even taller than it looks from a distance, so that’s something. No easy sniper’s perch around them, at least, and he silently thanks MacCready for that bit of design work. He spares a glance behind him, and finds MacCready doing the same little sweep, eyes trailing the wall’s perimeter and then flicking up to check it against the line of the ridge. Deacon turns back. 

The smell of the wood hits his nose as he passes beneath the gate and underneath a walkway that rings the top of the wall most of the way around. It’s built in, just high enough to keep the top a little below chest level. Strips of painted wood peeking out from the wall here and there are all that remain of the old cottage. They filled the hole that once yawned open under the cottage’s foundation, and hauled away the pile of water-logged furniture next to it. The only structure left of the old site is the shed, where they’ll sleep in shifts between the workbenches. 

Instead of the ragged ruins of the cottage, what greets them now is a towering platform, nearly even with the height of the wall. The interceptor. Three long steel legs split from the top, hoses and wires coiled around them, dragged in from the fishpacking plant. Several feet away from that, a sprawling console waits, connected to the interceptor by a long wire. Other machinery is arrayed out around them, like the makeshift satellite made from a beach umbrella — no doubt stolen from somewhere along the waterfront in old Salem — along with an old generator rattling away next to the console. On the other side of the site, backed up against the wall of the shed, sits a power armor station, with a set of pink and white power armor waiting in it. A little tower of crates waits next to that — materials for traps and turret repairs, Deacon guesses. More piles of materials and stacks of crates sit in several places along the guard wall: replacement parts and repair tools and whatever else Deacon had asked for. And it hits him as he takes it all in that this is really happening. Oh, god.

Tinker Tom wheels around him and beelines for the console, muttering to himself as he goes. Desdemona follows with Anthony at her side. She pats his arm a few times, the way she does with Deacon when she’s trying to be encouraging. He still can’t hear what they’re saying, only the strange echo of sibilants bouncing off the walls. 

Tinker Tom’s fingers fly over the console’s keyboard. A few red and green lights flash in front of him. “Ready to go, Dez.” 

“Give him a minute, Tom.” 

It takes Deacon a second to realize what she means. Anthony turns toward Deacon, who happens to be standing the closest to him of any of the others, and gives him a small smile. Oh, this is… this is _it_. 

Okay.

Deacon pushes the straps of his pack off his shoulders, lowering it to the ground and tossing it toward the wall, out of the way. He slides his hands into the pockets of his jeans and strolls over to where Anthony stands, right over the packed dirt that once held the cottage’s living room.

“So,” Deacon jerks a hand toward the array of machinery ahead of them, “not that that doesn’t look like the epitome of safety, but if you don’t make it back, can I… have your stuff?”

Anthony’s smile widens, which was all Deacon was really aiming for. “You’ll probably have to fight Preston to the death.”

“Yeah, no, he was definitely included in the ‘stuff,’ I know what he looks like in a suit now.” 

Anthony laughs. He reaches out, grabs Deacon by the shoulder, and pulls him in for a hug Deacon’s expecting, this time. “You’re such a dick. Pretty sure there’s someone else that would have something to say about that.”

Deacon’s grateful his face is hidden over Anthony’s shoulder. He pats his back, and elects to ignore the comment. “You come back in one piece, Bullseye.”

Anthony squeezes him a little. “Gonna do my best.”

Deacon steps back, sliding his hands into his pockets again. “Tell the little guy Uncle Deacon says hey.”

“I’m hoping you can just tell him yourself,” Anthony says, with a small smile. But then MacCready steps up close, and Deacon ambles backward, out of the way.

He feels strange as he turns his back on the tight hug Anthony tugs MacCready into. A hollow feeling opens under his ribs, and he tries to resist the urge to rub at the spot on his chest. He lets his feet carry him toward the console instead. Tinker Tom’s fingers rest over the keyboard, his pinky shaking a little where it hovers over the enter key. Deacon circles around the front slowly, giving Tom plenty of time to notice he’s there before he startles and hits the wrong key.

“Hey, Tink,” Deacon says, resting his elbows on the top of the console. Tom leans forward a little, tipping his head to the side to angle his ear toward Deacon, eyes going impossibly wider. Deacon whispers, “That’s my buddy going into that thing. Push all the right buttons, yeah?” 

Tinker Tom gives him a trembling nod, helmet bobbing. “I got you, Deacon. I got it, man.”

Deacon smacks his hand lightly on the console and pushes back just as he hears a choked, “Okay, let’s do this.” 

He glances up and sees Anthony stepping out of Preston’s arms. He turns away quickly, and swipes at his nose with the back of his hand as he marches up to the platform. He takes a deep breath, squares his shoulders, and then he spins to face them. 

The rest of the group comes to stand in a loose semi-circle to one side of the console. Desdemona folds her arms on Deacon’s left, while MacCready stands to his right. Deacon tries to keep his face blank, and tries not to press on that spot in his chest.

“All right, Tom,” Desdemona says, once Anthony gives her a nod. “Light her up.”

Tom’s pinky slams down on the enter key. Light bursts from the ring at the top of the interceptor, bright enough to make all of them wince. It crackles into blue bolts that fork down around the platform. 

“Jesus,” Deacon gasps, taking a step back. 

“Talk to me, Tom,” Desdemona says.

“We’re good, we’re good!” Tom jams his fist against a few buttons and then starts typing frantically. “Booting up the scan sequence. This frequency is only going to work once. You-Know-Who doesn’t make the same mistake twice. Going to have to cut a few corners with the scan.”

“Let’s keep the ramble productive, buddy,” Deacon says over the noise, just as a particularly bright flash careens down between the steel legs. Anthony plants his feet, looking up at the top of the interceptor as it starts to shake. The metal clanks against the supports. 

“Stand still!” Tom calls to Anthony. “Gotta lock in all those molecules of yours!” More to himself, he adds, “Hopefully we won’t miss any. There’s only, you know, sixty trillion of them.” 

“Come on, Tink!” Deacon says, eyes glued to the interceptor. 

“All right, feeding our baby some juice. Let’s see what she’s got!” 

Tom punches another button. The interceptor jolts and shudders, lightning striking down faster now. The metal groans, and the shaking rips a hose loose on one side. It spits steam into the air as it whips back and forth.

“Is that supposed to happen?” MacCready says at the same time Desdemona yells, “Tom!”

“Oh man,” Tom says. He leans over the keys, practically bashing them with his fingers. “Don’t worry! That’s… all part of the plan.” 

Deacon squints through the lightning. Anthony fights to keep himself still, his hands fisted at his side, his jaw clenched. Deacon sees his eyes dart to the broken hose, then back to Tom. 

Tom whips his head up. “I think I got it! Establishing a lock on the Institute signal.” 

“Just hang on, Bullseye. You can do this!” Desdemona says. 

“Got the RF! We got it!” 

The interceptor’s legs rattle. Lightning crashes relentlessly around the platform. 

“Now!” 

Several bolts strike down at once with a thunderous crack. Light engulfs Anthony, blindingly bright, too hard to watch. Deacon ducks his head toward his shoulder, shutting his eyes beneath his sunglasses. And then everything goes silent. 

Deacon slowly straightens. He opens his eyes. In front of him, the interceptor smokes, and the umbrella satellite sags, shredded and blackened. No one moves.

Then Preston whirls on Tinker Tom. “What happened? Did he make it? Did it break? What _happened_?”

“I—I don’t know, man,” Tom says, shaking fingers sinking back down to the keyboard. “I can’t track it, it doesn’t work like that.” 

_We just have to hope_ goes unspoken. They all hear it anyway.

“That hose breaking,” Preston says, and there’s a strain to his voice like he’s struggling to keep it level. “That wasn’t part of the plan, was it? And that… thing over there. It’s blown.” He points to what’s left of the umbrella. 

Tom keeps typing, his eyes darting over the screen. “Signal over loaded the receptors… generator’s at quarter power… beam emitter down... “

“All right, so we need to fix it. Come on,” Preston says. He turns to one of the stacks of extra materials resting against the wall. 

“Man, I told you, they’re not gonna make the same mistake twice,” Tom says, looking up.

Preston glances back. “What does that mean?” 

“It means even if we fix it, they’ll have a way to prevent it from working again. At worst, firing it up again might mean the Coursers come pouring out on top of us. That probably drew a hell of a lot of attention as it is,” Desdemona says. 

“How the hell is he supposed to get back, then?” MacCready says. Deacon looks over to see his eyes hardening.

Desdemona folds her arms again. “He always knew this was probably a one way ticket. He planned to find another way out. He told me himself.” 

“So we don’t do whatever we can to help him from this side?” Preston says, voice rising. “We don’t give him the option to come back this way?”

“We don’t know—”

“Exactly! We don’t know! We have to give him every chance we can!” Preston yells. Deacon’s never seen the look that burns its way onto his face. 

Tom fidgets next to the console. “The power isn’t sustainable. The generator—”

“Then we sustain it as long as we can, or we find a way to bring the power capacity back up,” Preston says. “We have to at least try to fix it.”

MacCready frowns. “He’s done so much for you people. This is the least you could do for him.” 

Desdemona raises her chin. Her eyes cut to Deacon. Deacon feels MacCready and Preston follow her gaze.

Quietly, he says, “They’re right, Dez.”

She draws in a sharp breath through her nose. Her eyes jump away from him, to the front gate. For a moment, he thinks she’s going to walk. He knows she’s weighing it, weighing the cost of staying longer than they planned, when the Institute could be hot on their heels. 

Then she drops her arms and looks at Deacon again. “You said you had contingency plans. Was this scenario in them?”

“Yes.”

She sighs. “Tell me what we need to do.” 

Deacon turns toward the pile of materials to find MacCready looking at him. He doesn’t look away when Deacon catches him. Deacon furrows his brow. MacCready’s lips part, but he doesn’t say anything, just looks a moment longer, the anger gone from his eyes. He steps away, and Deacon slowly follows, feeling off balance.

\----

It’s tipping into afternoon by the time Deacon presses his back to the console and slides himself down into the grass. He lets the wrench in his hand drop with him. He tugs a little at the collar of his jacket, letting cool air hit the sweat on the back of his neck. 

“All right, I’ve fitted, I’ve hammered, I’ve nutted, I’ve bolted,” he says, ignoring the eyeroll MacCready gives him and the stern look from Desdemona. “I’m out of ideas for this generator.” 

MacCready runs a hand over the generator’s cover. “Yeah I’ve… never been a hammer and nails sorta guy.” 

Preston appears from the generator’s other side. “There’s enough power that it’s still running the console, and the lights in the shed. We just have to boost it enough to—”

“Oh sure, by all means, shoot a surge of power through this broken oil bucket if you want to set off a _bomb_ in this place,” Tinker Tom says, pulling a face. 

Preston’s shoulders tense. “We have to find another option, then. If we check the fishpacking plant—”

“Preston,” MacCready says carefully, “even if there is another generator, it’d take all of us to carry it. That’s time away from here, and time in the open, moving slow.” He sighs. “We’re lucky nothing’s come banging on the walls after all _that_—” he gestures to the interceptor, “—so trying to carry out another?” 

Preston frowns. He steps around the side of the generator, jaw tightening. “We’re not giving up on him.”

“Like hell we’ll give up on him,” MacCready says, and that makes Preston relax, just a little.

“But we’re no good to him as sniper fodder, either,” Deacon says, leaning his head back against the console.

Preston looks back at the generator. Without another word, he moves back around and leans down again. Deacon and MacCready exchange a look, and then Deacon looks to Desdemona.

“We need to move,” Desdemona says quietly, tipping her head toward the gate. 

Deacon nods, pushing to his feet. He follows them down while MacCready turns back toward the generator. Desdemona pauses once they step outside, and looks back at where Deacon stands in the entrance. 

“He’ll make it out,” she says. “We have to believe that.” 

“Sure, Dez.” 

She looks like she wants to keep going. But then she purses her lips, and looks down. She reaches into her back pocket for her cigarettes.

She lights one up, taking a drag and blowing smoke out toward what remains of the forest. Without looking back, she says, “You have your walkie.” 

“Yeah.”

“Every couple of hours, then. We’ll be waiting to hear.” 

“We’ll call.” 

She nods, mostly to herself. She takes another drag, and then finally looks at him. Her brows bend. She’s worried. She tries to smooth it out, but he reads it in the lines of her face. 

“Be safe,” she says, and then nods to the guard waiting against the wall. Deacon watches them march their way down the path, and then heaves the gate closed, sliding each bolt lock into place. He presses his back to it, and his eyes stray toward the console. MacCready stands back, watching Preston work. Deacon can’t see Preston, but he hears a few clangs. He presses his fingers up under his shades for a moment and just leans there, listening. 

\----

Deacon takes the first sleep shift, mostly because Preston refuses and MacCready tells him he looks like he needs it. So Deacon spreads his bedroll on the shed floor and, despite the rattling of the generator and the hum of the turrets, drops into a heavy sleep. 

Hours later, when MacCready comes to shake him awake, he feels like he’s clawing up from the bottom of the ocean. His eyes slide open. He feels groggy and a little dizzy, his arms leaden at his side. The open wall over MacCready’s shoulder shows him it’s growing dark, the last patchy streaks of light fading in what he can see of the sky.

“We were going to throw something together for dinner before we switch,” MacCready says, sitting back on his haunches as Deacon struggles to push up onto his elbows. “Figured you’d want a say.”

Deacon yawns. He tips his head, gesturing vaguely toward the door. “Is he still—?”

MacCready sighs. “He tried a few new parts, tried tinkering with the—whatever it is, the big thing. He wants to stay out there, so I’ll take the next sleep shift.” 

Deacon scrubs a hand over his eyes, and realizes they’re bare. He fumbles blindly for his sunglasses. “He’s not going to give up, is he?”

“Would you?” MacCready says. Deacon stops with his sunglasses half-raised. MacCready’s words seem to hit him in the same moment, eyes widening a little and then darting up to Deacon’s face. “Uh, I mean—I didn’t—“

Deacon swallows. After a moment, he whispers, “No. I wouldn’t.”

MacCready’s mouth slowly closes. His shoulders rise and fall in a deep breath, and he drops his gaze to the floor. He says, half to himself, “God, Deacon. Why do you have to…”

He doesn’t finish. His hand lifts off his thigh, hovering above it for a moment. Then his fingers curl into a fist and drop again. He pushes to his feet, and circles his fist around to the pouch he keeps his cigarettes in. “Anyway, dinner.”

“Right.” Deacon sits all the way up and slides on his shades. Clearing his throat is admitting he feels the awkwardness of the moment, admitting there’s something to feel awkward over. Admitting. He gives in to the impulse. He’s not sure MacCready even notices.

A haphazard pyramid of wood surrounded by little sticks and dried grass waits for them a few feet away. Lighting a campfire might have been less than wise on the first night if the wild noise from earlier and all the banging around the generator hadn’t already erased whatever cover a little darkness might’ve given them. Besides, a dinner of jerky and cold beans and trail mix this soon into their stay sounds… well, depressing. 

MacCready up-ends the leather satchel waiting next to the reserve pile of firewood against the wall. A few wrapped chunks of salted meat tumble onto the rag he’s spread out over the ground, along with a couple of cans, several Old World box dinners, and two tatoes Deacon had grabbed from MacCready's fridge-pantry on their way out the door. 

If they end up here longer than a week, they’ll have to hunt. Not ideal, sending someone out alone, but if the Institute hasn’t come after them by then, maybe it’ll be less of a risk. Honestly, it’ll probably be time to start considering other options anyway. Like the possibility that Anthony’s not coming back.

Deacon wrenches himself away from that thought so hard he almost throws a hand out to steady himself. He kneels next to the pile of foodstuffs and starts looking them over. MacCready lights a cigarette and then the kindling, tossing the match in once enough of the grass ignites. Deacon reaches for the box of Blamco Mac and Cheese.

“Really?”

Deacon looks up. MacCready raises an eyebrow at him as he takes a drag.

Deacon sees that and raises him one more. “What? I think we could all use something… you know. Homey.” _Comforting_.

“You usually have stronger opinions about that stuff.” MacCready taps ash out over the growing fire. 

“Yeah, because if I just made it straight, it’d be bland and boring,” Deacon says. He reaches for the can of Cram. 

“Did you stuff a bunch of herbs in with all your costumes?” 

Deacon snorts. “Just watch and learn, Bobby.” 

It’s almost normal. Almost the way they might chat in MacCready’s kitchen on any other night, without the inert shadow of the interceptor looming behind them, and without Preston leaning against the generator, trying to squint at it in the last of the evening light. Almost.

He wonders if MacCready feels it too, as they lapse into an uneasy silence. MacCready smokes his cigarette down to the filter on one of the short benches perched near the fire, as he watches Deacon’s hands work. Then he blinks a few times and sits back. He tosses the butt of the cigarette into the fire, lights another, and stands. A moment later, Deacon hears his footsteps on the walkway above him, and then the faint sounds of bullets loading into a rifle. The gun cocks. The wood creaks. Deacon cuts through the skin of one of the tatoes.

They eat spread out over the site: Deacon hunched on the bench in front of the fire, MacCready in the folding chair on the walkway, and Preston against the back of the console, facing the interceptor. It’s been a long time since Deacon tried doctoring up mac and cheese with grilled Cram and roasted tatoes, but it’s not half bad for a little improvisation. It would’ve been better with brahmin milk, but that was a waste of pack space with how quickly it tended to spoil. It’s filling enough, and warm; the evening goes cold quickly now, once the sun sets. 

The silence stretches on, even after they’ve finished, and it’s making Deacon _itch_. MacCready drops off his bowl, and Preston takes his perch on the walkway, and Deacon scrapes the dishes clean and piles them at the edge of the stone ring around the fire. They don’t speak, and they all keep throwing nervous glances at the interceptor, though it does little more than creak when the wind passes. 

It’s not that he can’t take a little quiet. It’s not that he can’t sit still. It just feels like… resignation. It feels exactly like the long, deep breath before a scream. 

He leaves the fire to burn itself out and grabs his sniper rifle. He carries it up the ramp, dropping down next to Preston’s perch in the folding chair. Deacon turns to sit with his back to him, his legs dangling out between the bottom slat of the railing and the edge of the walkway. He lays his rifle in his lap, and keeps his eyes on the interceptor. 

“Did Anthony tell you about that time a few weeks ago when we went to the, like, weird little robot city by Greentop?”

He doesn’t look back to see if Preston’s listening. If he wants to talk, he’ll talk. If he doesn’t, he’ll say something infuriatingly polite that will loosely translate to, “Would you kindly fuck off?” Deacon swings his legs a little and waits.

“The Galleria?” Preston says, after a moment. “He mentioned it.”

“Did he tell you how we got in?”

“He said you stumbled on it trying to look for an evacuation shelter for the Nursery, and the robots all thought he was some kind of bigwig.” There’s a pause, and then a breath that might be a laugh, if Deacon strains his ears. “Then I had to ask him what a ‘bigwig’ was, and then we kinda got derailed.”

The corner of Deacon’s mouth lifts. “So he didn’t tell you the details.” 

“No, I guess he didn’t.”

Deacon cracks his knuckles, popping each joint with the heel of his palm. “Right, so. Picture this, okay? We waltz up to this place, just him and me, and the speaker is just blasting this army general voice.” He tips his head forward and drops his voice. “‘Any deviation from Standard Operating Blah Blah Blah, now grovel, maggots, no one takes a piss without my say-so.’ And other friendly welcome messages.” 

That gets a chuckle, and Deacon smiles to himself. “So, we’re thinking, this is going to go well. And we’re ready to pull out our weapons, but this Mr. Handy comes gliding up asking Anthony if he’s some kind of supervisor or something. Next thing we know, we’re getting herded up into that water tower-sized robot statue, you know the one. And I mean, right off the bat, _not_ how I wanted to spend my day. But Anthony’s hooked now, right? He’s gotta see where this is going. You know how he gets.”

“Yeah,” Preston says quietly.

“Not like I wasn’t curious, too. I just didn’t see why we had to do it a mile off the ground in a robot head the size of a small planet. But, there we were. A mile off the ground in a robot head the size of a small planet. All the way up at the tippy fucking top.”

“You really don’t like heights, do you?” Preston says. 

Deacon turns his head slightly. “What in the world gave you that idea?”

“Call it a hunch.” 

“Look at you, Preslock Holmes. No, I’m not exactly a fan. But you know, I’m cool, it’s cool, we’re cool. Up we go. And the elevator opens up, and this Mr. Gutsy comes barreling over before we can even really move.” He puts on the voice again. “‘All right, maggot! Hold it right there! What are you up to? Who are you working for? I want answers!’” 

Deacon leans back on his hands as Preston chuckles again. “So, this is it, right? There’s no way this is ending in anything but a shootout. I’m already reaching for my gun. And then suddenly the robot’s like, ‘Wait, are you…’ and says some weird-ass title that had to be made up. ‘You’re late!’ And Anthony, without missing a beat, goes, ‘That’s me. Reporting for duty, sir.’ And I’m trying to keep it cool, go with it, when the robot demands ID.”

Deacon shakes his head. “I’m never gonna get over this, I’m telling you. Anthony says, ‘Of course, sir, sorry, sir, just picked it up this morning, they told me there might be a delay getting it in the system.’ And he reaches into his back pocket and pulls out a flattened cigarette carton. Like, clearly empty, crushed when he sat on it. I don’t even know why he had it, I’ve never seen him smoke. Does he smoke?”

“No.”

“Oh my god. Well, whatever the hell reason he had it, he pulls it out, and I’m thinking, this is it. Shootout in three… two… but this robot fucking falls for it! He scans this piece of shit cigarette carton like it’s actually ID, mumbles something robotic about errors in scanning and provisional acceptance, and then he’s in. Thirty seconds of conversation and Anthony’s president of Robot Town.” 

Preston’s laughing now. Really laughing. Deacon peeks over his shoulder to see Preston bent forward over the laser rifle in his lap, one hand pressed against his side. 

“Please tell me you’re not making this up,” Preston gasps out, laughter slowing to uneven bursts as he wipes his eyes.

“I _wish_ I could make up something this good,” Deacon says.

Once Preston sobers a little, Deacon turns back toward the interceptor. A breeze passes, and Deacon shrugs his bomber jacket up higher against the chill. A little quieter, he says, “I’ve seen Anthony in action, you know? I knew he was good. But I think… that was the moment I knew. Like, _really_ knew. That he could get through anything. He got a robot with crazy advanced sensors to accept a smashed carton as an ID. I think he really can face anything and win, you know?” 

Deacon keeps his eyes ahead. But after a long moment, he hears Preston sigh out, “Yeah.”

They sit in silence for another minute or two, but it’s easy now. Lighter. Dropping between them less like a mallet, and more like a blanket. 

“Thank you,” Preston says, almost lost to another passing breeze. 

Deacon just nods. He twists a little, and then reaches for one of the two walkies near Preston’s feet. “About time to check in.”

Preston straightens. “Oh, yeah, right.”

Deacon presses the button in on the walkie labeled “R” with scotch tape. “Kirk to Enterprise.”

The walkie crackles in what sounds like a very impatient sigh. Desdemona’s voice comes through flat. “Go ahead, _Kirk_.”

\----

Somewhere past midnight, a shout rings out into the night from the shed. Deacon sits bolt upright. 

“Was that RJ?” Preston says.

Deacon hears his boots scrape. Deacon doesn’t stop to answer, just throws himself flat and twists through the opening he’d been dangling his feet through. He ignores the way the wood scrapes his stomach, and pushes off the platform to land, stumbling, in the dirt. He feels for the strap of his rifle as he runs, and realizes he left it on the walkway. He rips Deliverer free of his waistband instead and aims it forward as he barrels into the shed’s open doorway. 

He looks around frantically for a second. If someone’s teleported in and grabbed MacCready, if they — but he sees no one. Nothing moves in the darkness. Okay, but if they have a stealth field… he keeps Deliverer aimed forward, and steps carefully to the side until he can reach the light switch with his free hand. If he can just throw the light on, find a point where it bends the way it shouldn’t, then he can — wait, shit, they cooked the generator. Turning on the lights might fry it for good. But if someone’s —

Another shout cuts through the air from the floor. Deacon looks down. MacCready’s lying next to Deacon’s bedroll, his legs tangled up in his own. His head twists back over the pillow, and his arm lifts a little as he whimpers something Deacon can’t make out. Deacon lowers his gun. 

He hears Preston coming down the walkway behind him. Deacon holds a hand up, and looks back at him over his shoulder. The campfire long ago burned down to embers, but Deacon can make out Preston’s shape against the lighter wood of the guard wall.

“It’s okay,” he says, waving his hand a little. “It’s… he’s okay. I’ve got it.”

Preston doesn’t answer, but Deacon sees the hat bob a little in a nod. MacCready whimpers again, and Deacon turns back, shoving Deliverer back against his tailbone. He steps closer. 

MacCready jerks onto his side, feet moving wildly under the blanket for a moment. Like he’s trying to run. Deacon grits his teeth, chest aching a little as he watches. He kneels down next to him.

“Bobby,” he whispers. “Bobby, wake up.”

He’s slept next to other Railroad agents often enough to know not to try to shake MacCready out of it. Not if he doesn’t want a fist to the jaw for his trouble. A little louder, he says, “Wake up, Bobby. It’s not real. You’re okay, come on.”

MacCready’s face contorts into a grimace, his eyes still shut. “No, no—_no_—”

Oh god. Deacon bends closer. “MacCready!”

He ducks back just as MacCready shoots up off the bedroll, fist swinging out blindly. “NO!”

The force of the swing crumples him forward over his knees. He tips sideways, and Deacon reaches forward to catch him. “Hey, hey, easy, slugger. It’s okay. You’re okay.”

MacCready jerks his head up and stares, wide-eyed. Recognition slowly dawns, and he slumps a little in Deacon’s grip. 

“Shit,” he says, panting. He shuts his eyes. “Crap.”

“You’re okay,” Deacon says again. “Just a dream.”

MacCready breathes heavily, his shoulder rising and falling against Deacon’s sternum. He shakes his head. “Memory.”

Deacon’s lips twist. He wants to pull him in, haul him close, press him against his chest until he stops seeing blood and dirt and subway tiles. Deacon knows this feeling. He knows it too well, this unmoored, panicky place between waking up and shaking it off, fighting your way out of your own head. He wants to hold him through it.

But he can’t. _Assume they’re watching…_

He squeezes MacCready’s shoulder and helps him sit up a little more. Aside from his shoes and his hat, which both sit on the floor behind his pillow, MacCready had slept in most of his clothes. Deacon helps pull the shoulders of the duster back into place where they’d twisted down, and straightens the sleeve of his button-up on the side where the duster’s arm is ripped free. MacCready watches him work as his breathing gradually slows.

“Oh, you’re all — here.” Deacon tugs the scarf down from where it’s bunched too high on MacCready’s neck. He tucks it beneath the coat’s lapels and smooths them down, his fingertips brushing the flushed skin just above the hem of MacCready’s t-shirt as he goes. Deacon swallows.

“There,” he says softly, forcing himself to pull his hand back.

“Thanks,” MacCready says, still breathless. Deacon can’t look at his face. He nods to his knees.

MacCready fumbles back for a can of purified water sitting near his pillow, miraculously unspilled in all his tossing and turning. He takes a long gulp, then nods toward the door. “All, uh—all good? Out there?”

“Not a peep.”

“Good.”

Deacon shifts a little, knees starting to ache where they’re pressed to the wood floor. “You should try to get a little more sleep.”

MacCready shakes his head. “That’s… off the table.” 

Deacon purses his lips. His eyes land on his pack. “Well, I was just about to catch up on my reading. If you don’t mind… uh, company.”

MacCready blinks at him. “Now?”

“I can see the interceptor from here,” Deacon says, wincing as he pushes to his feet. He fishes the book out of his pack’s front pocket. “Be easier if I could borrow that fancy flashlight of yours.” 

Deacon sees MacCready’s eyes flick over to the light switch, and then to what they can see of the generator from here. Then he reaches back and flicks one of the buttons on his PipBoy where it sprawls open next to his shoes. The room fills instantly with a greenish glow. Deacon smiles a little, and leans over to fish the book out. Then he settles with his back against the nearest workbench, keeping the interceptor in view in front of him. He bends his knees up, and rests the spine of the book against his thigh. 

“Chapter one—”

“You’re reading it out loud?” 

Deacon looks over at him. “I don’t have to.”

MacCready holds his gaze for a moment. Then he pushes the blanket off his knees. “You gonna do voices?”

“Have you _met_ me?” 

MacCready smiles. He shifts around and presses his back to the same workbench, perpendicular to Deacon. He pulls out his cigarettes. Deacon clears his throat. 

“Chapter one — Paris: September, 1792.”

\----

“Damn, how many shots is it gonna take?” 

“Twice as many as it would take if you’d help me.”

“The hell do you think I’m doing?”

“Missing.”

Deacon grits his teeth. He shifts his shoulders, resettling the stock of his rifle, and leans his head back down to the scope. The yao guai below them tosses his head, limping another foot closer to the guard wall. Deacon can see the blood dripping down its head from two of MacCready’s bullets. Deacon will take credit for the limp, thank you. A shot meant for the forehead went wide when the beast moved too quickly, piercing its leg instead. 

Next to him, MacCready reloads, but Deacon tunes the sound out. He waits for the yao guai’s head to go still again, and lines up the scope. He takes a deep breath, and pulls the trigger… just as the yao guai wrenches itself to the side again. The shot lands in its shoulder, sending blood pouring down over the fur. It roars, baring its teeth.

“God damn it,” Deacon says. MacCready chuckles a little, and Deacon glares at him.

MacCready gives him a smirk, and then lifts his own rifle again. His hands slip into place with a kind of practiced grace. One moment to line up the shot, one quick breath, and MacCready shoots, shoulders firm against the recoil. Deacon hears the yao guai’s growl choke off into a gurgle, and then the heavy thud as it slumps in the dirt. MacCready watches it a moment longer through the scope. Satisfied, he straightens and looks at Deacon, raising an eyebrow. Deacon rolls his eyes under his shades and leans his rifle against the wall.

“Showoff,” he says, because that was _not_ stupidly hot. It was not.

“Loser skins the carcass,” MacCready says, swinging his strap back around.

“Oh hell no, I did not agree to that.”

“It’ll smell and get the attention of something bigger if we don’t.”

“Yeah, fine, and we need the meat, but I don’t know the first fucking thing about skinning a yao guai.” 

“Keep it down, you’ll wake Preston.”

“You don’t think the damn growling and shooting did that? Anyway, maybe _he_ knows how to—”

A bright blue bolt of light interrupts them both, slamming into the dirt path in front of the gate hard enough to send up a cloud of dust. Then the light dissolves back. Anthony stands on the path, pale, but uninjured. And alone. He stares at the gate, drops to his knees, and vomits into the dirt. 

“Holy shit,” Deacon says. MacCready’s already running, bolting down the walkway and leaping down off the ramp. Deacon snaps his head away and moves to follow.

“Preston!” MacCready calls, shoving his palm against the first bolt lock on the gate. “Preston, get out here!”

Deacon sees Preston scrambling up as he skids to a stop next to MacCready, bending to push at the bottom lock. Preston stumbles out of the shed still trying to settle his boot on his foot and shove his arm through his uniform coat. His rifle flaps awkwardly against his side where the strap is slung over one shoulder. “What is it?”

Deacon pushes the lock free and MacCready throws the gate open hard enough that it crashes back against the wall, bouncing forward a little. Anthony still slumps on the ground, his hands fisted next to his knees. 

“Anthony?” Preston breathes, nearly dropping his rifle. “Anthony!” 

He vaults forward, sliding down into the dirt at Anthony’s side. He grabs Anthony’s shoulders. “Babe, talk to me. Are you okay?” 

“Preston,” Deacon says quietly, “I’m sorry, but we have to make sure he’s—he’s the real deal.”

“Not here,” Anthony chokes out, his head jerking up. Deacon’s never heard his voice like this. It comes out high and hoarse, straining out of his throat. His hand shakes as he lifts it and frantically starts pulling at the clasps of his PipBoy. His eyes are wide, and all the color has left his face.

Jesus Christ. He’s terrified.

“Get it off — help me, get it —” The rest dissolves into a frustrated groan as his fingers tremble on the clasp. Preston reaches out and covers his knuckles, and his hand stills. 

“I’ve got it, sweetheart,” Preston whispers. Anthony drops his hand, and Preston unhooks the PipBoy and tugs it free of his wrist. Anthony doubles over, retching again. Preston looks down with alarm.

“We have to go—” Anthony coughs out, “—go somewhere else, _please_.”

“Anywhere. We’ll go. We’ll go right now,” Preston says, looking up and holding out the PipBoy.

Deacon steps forward to take it. “Preston, we have to be sure it’s him—”

“He needs help,” Preston cuts in, sharp.

“I know,” Deacon says, trying to keep his voice gentle. “But I need you to trust me here.”

“He’s right,” Anthony says, weak but clear, as he tries to straighten. “Just… not here.”

“There’s a boathouse up on the dunes,” MacCready says. Deacon looks back to see him pointing out across the road.

“Help me get him up,” Preston says.

“Not with that!” Anthony says, pointing at the PipBoy in Deacon’s hand. Deacon and Preston look at each other. 

“Okay. It stays here, got it,” Deacon says. He carries it back behind the walls, looking around for a moment before catching sight of a drawer on the console. He yanks it open and tosses the PipBoy in, his heart in his throat as he shuts it. He returns to find Anthony on his feet, MacCready and Preston holding him up on either side. 

“Let me,” Deacon says, motioning MacCready forward. “We’re gonna need you watching the road.”

“Right,” MacCready says quietly. Deacon steps under Anthony’s arm, wrapping his own around Anthony’s back.

“Easy does it, Bullseye,” he says. Together, they take a few halting steps forward. Behind them, MacCready padlocks the gate, and then follows them down the hill.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1) So, I'm fudging the timeline of Fallout a little to allow for Star Trek to exist entirely so I could have Deacon be a nerd with his code phrases, and also as a little present for my beta(/roommate/bff) who fell headfirst into Deep Space 9 for a month.
> 
> 2) Hands up if you would pay good money to hear Deacon read a book aloud to you complete with made up voices.
> 
> Chapter 23 is, to my shock, finished, and will go up when I have a draft for Chapter 24 (THE LAST CHAPTER I'M STILL KINDA FREAKING OUT ABOUT THAT WHAT THE FUCK). I'm not going to post both at once, I'll probably wait until I have the epilogue drafted to post 24. See you soon, hopefully. In the mean time, come say hi on twitter @galaxiesgone or on tumblr @electricshoebox.


	23. Chapter 23

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The boys deal with the aftermath of Anthony's return. And Deacon gets out of his own way, for once.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, today my beta did the last pass on the last chapter. I'm still reeling. I can't believe I did it. So here we go, second to last chapter. The final chapter will go up once I finished the epilogue, which I don't foresee being quite as long as most chapters, so I don't think it'll be a long wait. Anyway, if you want some mood music for this chapter (or at least the last part of it), I listened to "Separate" by PVRIS a lot during the days I was writing it. It's too late to add it to the Spotify playlist I made for this fic, but consider it a bonus track because it is definitely what fueled the last bit. 
> 
> Thanks of course to **serenityfails** for the beta reading and the constant encouragement. 
> 
> Warnings for this chapter: depiction of a character having a vasovagal reaction that looks similar to shock, brief passing mention of vomiting, use of alcohol to cope with trauma, and explicit, enthusiastically consensual sex.

Anthony’s shaking. Deacon feels it against his side, and through the arm clinging to his shoulders, as he and Preston half-carry him toward the beach. He doesn’t speak as they walk. His breathing comes out uneven, shuddering through his ribs, too shallow. Deacon tightens his hold. When they reach the dunes, they step off the road together, and Anthony’s steps wobble and slow.

Deacon casts a wary glance around them as they help him forward. Clouds still clog the sky, grey and heavy, but not heavy enough for rain. He keeps waiting for another flare of blue light to crack through them. The road stands empty, and nothing moves among the scattered trees above them, though the cliffs are too high to see much further than the edge. No sign of mirelurks, either, when he lowers his gaze to the ground, though a few patches of mud between the abandoned cars have the telltale dents of eggs, long since cleared away. The Minutemen were thorough.

As he scans the horizon, checking the sky again, Deacon sees MacCready break off from them. He walks up the ridge of one of the dunes on their left, a higher perch to watch as they all but drag Anthony over the sand. He holds his rifle close, eyes darting over the cliffs behind them and then back, following the same line Deacon’s survey had taken, and just the sight of it eases something tight in Deacon’s chest. Below him, they climb in fits and starts up toward a pair of partially-buried trucks. 

The boathouse hunches beyond them, wood slats graying and flaking off the walls. A few squat windows, sand-streaked, show only a single dark room inside. A pair of wooden skiffs lean on the open porch next to a rust-flecked Nuka Cola machine. They rock in place when the wind sails past off the ocean. 

As they reach the few short steps leading up to the porch, Deacon ducks out from under Anthony’s arm and gently leans all of his weight into Preston’s side. Preston resettles his grip and nods. Deacon pulls out Deliverer and glances in the windows, then tries the door. He tugs, and tugs, and tugs again. Finally it gives, raining sand and salt down over the threshold and across Deacon’s shoes. Deacon carefully leans his head inside. 

He’s surprised to find it’s not really a boathouse at all, but some kind of cafe. Two booths, caked with old sand and rubbed threadbare, slouch against the far wall. Closer to the front, there’s an ancient fridge with the door nearly rusted through, and an old sales counter. Broken bottles and overturned coffee mugs litter the floor, and the tables between the booth seats. He checks behind the counter, tiptoeing over a few bottles and crushed receipts, but finds no radroaches or bloatflies lurking in the shadows. He moves back to the door and waves the others inside.

Preston helps Anthony into one of the booths. His boots send one of the bottles rattling into a chipped mug, and Deacon winces and looks over his shoulder at the doorway. MacCready does one last scan over the dunes and the docks down nearer the shore, and then follows them inside. The door sticks, not quite latching when Deacon pulls it shut, but he leaves it. Good enough. MacCready takes position by one of the windows.

Anthony looks paler now. He slumps sideways in the booth, one shoulder pressed heavily into the backrest. Despite the walk through the chilly autumn air, sweat shines at his temple, and under his jaw. His eyes keep sliding shut and then blinking back open. Deacon glances around and finds an old metal bucket behind the shop counter. He grabs it and sets it down between Anthony’s feet, picking his way through the trash on the floor.

Deacon’s dying to ask him what happened. Has he been tortured? Inflicted with something that’s making him so pale and shaky? He can’t see any obvious injuries, certainly nothing broken. The longer Deacon studies him, the more he thinks he’s seen this before, maybe a few times. Anthony looks a lot like Drummer Boy did after they fled Switchboard. Deacon remembers him hunched over in one of the pews once they reached the Old North Church, sweat-soaked and sickly white, retching over the pew’s arm and into a pile of splintered wood. Carrington had a word for it Deacon immediately forgot. Not an illness. Something closer to shock. Stress-induced shock. 

“How you doin’, buddy?” Deacon says gently, nudging another coffee mug carefully, quietly aside with his foot as he steps closer to the booth.

Anthony rolls his head up, his eyes not quite focusing on Deacon. “Can we work up to the complicated questions?” 

Deacon purses his lips. “I’m sorry. I hate to do this. But, uh. It was kinda your idea.” 

Deacon doesn’t even get a weak smile out of him for that. He grimaces a little, and sighs. 

“We’ve each got a question for you,” Deacon says. “When you’re ready.” 

Anthony just gives him a halfhearted nod. 

_Pick a memory,_ Deacon had told them. He, Preston, and MacCready, circled around the island in MacCready’s kitchen, talking about miracles, like Anthony making it back. _Pick something he’ll know, something he’ll remember. But not something important. If the Institute is going to make a copy, they’re going to dig for the big memories of the important people in his life. They’ll trip on the smaller things. That’s where we’ve caught them before._

He’d tried to sound confident as he watched them both fade into their thoughts. _I’ll be the failsafe. With any luck, they won’t even look at memories of me at all._

Deacon looks across at Preston where he’s leaning on the table next to Anthony. Deacon nods. Preston shifts, and sinks to his knees in front of Anthony. 

“Okay,” he says, blowing out a heavy breath. He tilts his head, trying to catch Anthony’s unfocused gaze. “Do you remember the couple weeks after we re-took the Castle? We were working and working, and we got a little stir crazy.” 

Anthony cracks an eye open. His voice comes out hoarse, and a little toneless, but the same sense of humor as always. “_You_ got stir crazy.” 

“Okay, fine,” Preston says, looking down, but Deacon sees the hint of a smile. “But you came with me.” 

“You wouldn’t tell me where we were going,” Anthony croaks. “Not until I saw the billboard.” 

“I knew you’d roll your eyes. Which you did,” Preston says. “But we did find it.” 

Anthony raises his eyes a little. They’re still glassy, but they soften a little at the corners. “Yeah.” 

“And then we sealed it back up, and promised we’d keep it to ourselves. So,” Preston says, raising his head again, “what _was_ the treasure of Jamaica Plains?” 

The corner of Anthony’s mouth finally lifts a little. “Bunch of photos, couple holotapes, an old flag, baseball stuff, and I think some lab equipment?” 

“Dang, really?” MacCready glaces up from the window. They all look over at him. The tips of his ears flush pink. “Well, it wasn’t like I was going to go _looking_, I just thought — never mind.” He frowns back at the window. 

Deacon looks back. There’s a little shadow of a smile on Anthony’s lips, like he’s had to pull so hard to drag it there he’s stretched it out of shape. A little color bleeds back into his cheeks. Preston reaches over and squeezes his knee, and then stands. He gives Deacon a nod. He leans back against the table again, resting a hand between Anthony’s shoulder blades. 

“Bobby,” Deacon says. MacCready looks up, and Deacon jerks his head toward Anthony. He moves to take MacCready’s place by the window. 

“Hey, boss,” MacCready says behind him as Deacon surveys the view. Still just sand and empty cliffs. He squints across the dunes at the guard wall in the distance. He can just make out the reddish lump of the yao guai slumped near the gate. 

“Hey, RJ.”

Something rustles quietly. “So, you remember one of the first jobs you took me on? When you still needed the funds? You made me promise not to tell Preston, and then you felt so guilty you ended up telling him anyway?” 

Deacon twists his lips a little. _Careful with the details, Bobby…_

But he does hear a little huff of breath, like a tiny laugh. Anthony says, “I remember.”

“Who were we working for?”

“Bobbi No-Nose.”

Oh hello. Deacon glances back at that. Preston is squeezing Anthony’s shoulder now, MacCready squatting down in front of him. Anthony’s heel shifts, bumping the side of the bucket.

“And that guy we sprung out of Diamond City?”

“The flirt,” Anthony says. He’s starting to sound a little more like himself. “Yeah, uh… Mel?”

“Why’d she want him?” 

Deacon looks back at the window. He’d clearly spoken too soon. MacCready was actually going harder on him than even Deacon was planning. Then again, given how long it’s taken MacCready to stop tensing at the mere mention of synths, maybe Deacon shouldn’t be surprised that the idea of Anthony being replaced by one might freak him out more than a little.

Anthony’s voice, clearer now, though still quiet, cuts through his thoughts. “That eyebot of his, the one that blew through walls.” 

“What were we actually after, in the end?” 

Anthony snorts, and it’s a relief to hear. “Hancock’s storehouse.” 

Deacon looks back as MacCready straightens. “Okay, I want the rest of that story later.” 

Anthony and MacCready share a grin. MacCready says, “Good to have you back, boss.” 

He nods once at Deacon and then resumes his place by the window. Deacon moves to stand in front of Anthony. 

“Home stretch, Bullseye.” 

Anthony looks a little more grounded, now. The sweat is cooling on his forehead, his skin looking far less startlingly white. His eyes lock on Deacon on the first try, this time. 

Deacon launches right into it. “What did I tell Dez you did at Switchboard, to get her to let you in?” 

Anthony squints down at the bucket for a moment, his brow furrowing. “Didn’t you tell her I killed a hundred Gen-1s by myself, or something? While carrying you on my back?” 

“Oh my god, Deacon,” MacCready says quietly.

Deacon’s eyes crinkle a little under his shades. “Still think she would’ve fallen for it.” He pauses, and then says, “Hey, Bullseye? Welcome back.” 

Anthony takes a deep breath. He hangs his head down for a moment. 

“Talk to us, buddy,” Deacon says. “What happened?”

“Did they hurt you?” Preston adds.

Anthony sits back a little. He lifts a hand and sinks it into his hair. He’s stopped shaking, at least. “No. God, I—I don’t know where to start. Jesus. We should probably — Desdemona should hear this. Just not here.” 

“Yeah, you keep saying that. Why not here?” Deacon says.

“I don’t know if they can track where I teleport.” 

MacCready looks away from the window. “You didn’t need the teleporter the second time. We were afraid—”

“No, no, I don’t—I don’t need it now. They put something in the PipBoy. Some kind of chip. I can teleport in and out, or wherever I want with it, but I don’t know what else it does, if they can—” Anthony gestures vaguely. 

“All right, that explains that,” Deacon says. He looks toward the window again. It doesn’t look like anything’s moving near the gate. 

“We should leave,” Anthony says. “I can… tell you everything, I just—need to go.” 

Deacon considers. “We could meet up with Dez at Mercer—”

“_No_,” Anthony cuts in sharply. “No safehouses. Nowhere I could compromise.” 

When Deacon looks at him in surprise, mouth still open, Anthony adds, “I don’t think they put anything else on me, but I don’t—I don’t _know_. I’m not taking that chance.” 

Preston squeezes his shoulder again. “We could go to the Castle. I know it’s a hike from here, but it’s a logical place for you to be. If they attack, they’re going to be surrounded by soldiers.” 

Anthony slowly nods. “Yeah, that’s—yeah. Okay. I think I can walk. Maybe Desdemona can—um—”

“I’ll radio her,” Deacon says. “And let the Minutemen know to let her through.” 

“You have a code worked out?” Anthony says. 

Deacon raises an eyebrow. “Bullseye—”

“Right, yeah, of course you do.” Anthony sags a little against the booth. “Sorry.” 

“Just stay here,” MacCready says, pushing away from the window. “You and Preston. We’ll pack things up.” He gestures between himself and Deacon.

“Can you bring—I mean, I haven’t… eaten, since yesterday. I didn’t trust their—you know, what they offered.” 

“We got it, Bullseye,” Deacon says. Anthony sighs, and nods. MacCready moves for the door, and Deacon follows. 

\----

“It’s him, right?” MacCready asks as they climb back up toward the wall’s front gate. Deacon looks over to find MacCready worrying his lip, then frowning. 

“Best I can tell,” Deacon says. The frown doesn’t ease.

“It’s him,” MacCready says again, sounding more like he’s trying to convince himself. He reaches over to work the padlock open. 

Deacon glances around them, as though that’s going to give him much warning if someone just bursts out of the sky like Anthony did. He keeps his voice low, anyway. “Look at it this way. If he wasn’t… I don’t think he’d fight to avoid the safehouses. I think he’d be jumping at the chance to get to one.” 

MacCready pulls the lock. “Yeah… yeah.” 

The gate swings open, and the two of them peek carefully inside, weapons drawn. They creep in, MacCready stepping carefully toward the shed, while Deacon surveys the site of the interceptor, then turns to walk backwards and check the walkway. 

“Clear,” he calls. MacCready calls the same, and then moves inside the shed to begin packing their things. 

Deacon heads for the ramp. He eyes the interceptor uneasily. Even knowing it’s little more than broken bits of steel now, the looming shape of it arching off the ground still sets him on edge. He shuts off the generator as he passes, and the rattling cover abruptly stills. Even with the turrets still humming above him, the sudden loss of noise is unnerving. Deacon climbs quickly up onto the walkway and grabs the Railroad’s walkie where it waits at the foot of the folding chair. 

“Kirk to Enterprise.”

The reply is immediate. “Go ahead, Kirk.”

Deacon swallows. “Four to beam up.”

Silence. Then, “Repeat, please?”

“Four to beam up.”

“Already?”

“Yes.”

“Status?”

Deacon hesitates. “Yellow. No injuries, but… we’ve yet to get the full story.” 

“Identity confirmed?”

“Yes. Moving out now. He wants you to meet us.” 

Another pause. “Where?”

Deacon thinks for a moment, then says, “It’ll be a royal pain to get there.” 

This time the silence stretches long enough that Deacon presses the button again. “Enterprise?”

“Acknowledged. I’ll meet you.” 

“They’ll expect you, by name. Call if anything comes up.” 

He radios the Minutemen, then clambers back down the walkway to pack up the food bag and the dishes. He leaves a bag of trail mix and a can of water near the top for Anthony. Then he meets MacCready at the shed just as he’s putting down the last of their packs, all lined up near the opening in the wall. 

“What do we do about the yao guai?” Deacon says, kneeling to strap the food bag to his pack. 

“Fu—Frick,” MacCready says. He looks toward the gate. “Leave it?” 

“Should we try to drag it away?” 

“Does it really matter now? He said he doesn’t need any of this stuff, and… I mean, if the Institute comes after us, I really wouldn’t mind them finding a deathclaw waiting for them.” MacCready’s mouth twists.

Deacon snorts. “Well, when you put it like that.” 

They pull on their packs, MacCready taking Preston’s over one shoulder as he settles his rifle strap more comfortably. Deacon looks toward the console as they step out of the shed. “He might lose that PipBoy, if we leave it here.” 

“Small price to pay,” MacCready says, sour enough that it surprises Deacon a little. 

“Well I mean, it’s the only ticket back in, now.” 

“Then maybe it should be lost,” MacCready says, still flatly bitter. “If that’s what it takes to actually get us all out of here in one piece, then fu—then screw it. There’s extra from the Vault still, in Sanctuary. Heck, he can have mine, if it’s that important.” 

As he hauls the gate open, Deacon pauses, brow creasing. MacCready looks back at him when he doesn’t move through. “What?” 

“You lied to me.”

MacCready startles. “What? What are you—?”

“You _were_ worried about this,” Deacon says. 

MacCready raises his chin. He lets go of the gate and steps up in front of Deacon. “I didn’t lie. I said we’d make it through. And I would’ve done whatever it took to make that true.” His voice goes low, but firm. “They can’t have you.” His eyes shut and he quickly corrects, “Us. Any of us.”

Oh, but Deacon heard the slip. Something hot licks up his spine and blazes through his chest. He takes a breath. MacCready reopens his eyes, a little flushed at the neck; still, he holds Deacon’s gaze.

“We did make it through,” Deacon rasps.

“Not yet. Come on.” 

\----

It’s a long, tense walk down the coast and into the city again. They don’t talk much, watching the edges of the road instead, and eying the sky as it darkens. Anthony says he doesn’t think they’ll attack, but he can’t be sure they won’t follow. That does nothing to ease anyone’s nerves. 

MacCready takes point, rifle gripped tight in front of him. Deacon takes the rear, casting furtive glances behind them every few minutes, watching for signs of invisible tails. Preston and Anthony walk close together between them. 

Deacon burns with questions, so many he can hardly keep track of them all. Anthony spent thirty hours, all told, inside a place the rest of them can barely imagine. Deacon knows Desdemona will beat him to the important things, but his biggest question is: if it’s not attack Anthony’s afraid of, then what is it that makes him fear being followed? He’s clearly not afraid of them infiltrating the Minutemen, if they’re marching straight to the Castle, and much as Anthony’s proven dedicated to the Railroad, Deacon doubts he’d fear their discovery deep enough to warrant that white-faced horror he’d teleported back with. Had they threatened him? Or his son? Had they killed his son already? Hard not to notice he teleported back alone. 

The list of questions grows longer and longer until they finally reach the Castle’s gates, well past nightfall. Subway lights illuminate the outside wall, making a beacon of it well before they reach it. For once, Deacon finds the boldness comforting. Minutemen stand guard at every corner of the upper walkway, with six stationed below, at the front gate. What Deacon can see of the walls looks solid — patched extensively with concrete that can’t have been easy to get, and actual honest-to-god cannons jutting out from the atop the turrets. 

They’re ushered inside by several more guards. The bulk of the forces working under the Minutemen know nothing of Anthony’s mission, save for a handful of higher officers. Even then, they know only that the General was going after his son, and nothing of the Railroad’s part in the story. Deacon doesn’t really know how to tell the “higher officers” from the rest — they all wear the same damn hat — but he guesses the one that greets them in the hallway with wide eyes and a sharp salute, and keeps staring at Anthony in awe, is probably one of them. 

No one seems to give Deacon much of a second glance, so he guesses they’ve been mostly successful keeping the Railroad out of it. They also seem unfamiliar with Desdemona, telling Anthony only that “the woman your man radioed about is waiting.” That’s a relief, too.

The officer leads them through a sprawling courtyard blaring that awful violin music. A radio tower vaults up from a structure planted dead center, where a man in uniform sits in front of a microphone. A barracks juts out a little way toward it, and rises one story above the ground, level with the wide walkways above. They pass along the length of it and then back into the hallway in the outer ring. MacCready and Deacon are each shown to rooms, though neither lingers more than a moment to lay their packs down. Then they all continue together to a massive room inside the lower level of one of the corner turrets. It has a bed with an elegant bedspread up against the far wall, along with several ornate pieces of wooden furniture. But it’s the long conference table in the middle that takes Deacon’s attention. Desdemona sits in one of the chairs, a full ashtray in front of her. She stands quickly when they enter, perching a cigarette on the edge of the tray. She looks stunned and relieved, as if she hadn’t actually expected to see them at all. Fair enough, really.

“Thank god,” she says, wheeling around the table. Preston thanks the guards and dismisses them as Desdemona grips Anthony by the shoulders and looks him over. The double doors close quietly behind them, the sound nevertheless echoing around the stone. 

“You’re not hurt?” she says, releasing him.

Anthony hesitates, and then shakes his head. She frowns a little at the look on his face, and then motions for them all to sit. They spread around the table, Deacon taking the far side with Desdemona, Anthony and Preston across from them. MacCready slings the strap of his rifle over his head and then slides down next to Deacon, surprising him a little. 

“First things first,” Desdemona says. “Are we in danger? Are _you_ in danger? Is there any chance you’re being tracked?” 

Anthony shifts his shoulders, mouth settling into a tight line. He stares down at where his fingers curl on the tabletop, nearly a fist. “I spent the whole walk here trying to figure out how to do this, how to… _say_ this. The short answer is: I don’t know if we’re in danger. At the moment, I don’t think it’s any more than usual. I don’t think they knew my… affiliations.” His eyes do flick up there, then back down. “They put a chip in my PipBoy to allow me to teleport. I don’t know what else it might do. I don’t know if it’s tracking me. I’m treating it as though it is. I left it on the coast.” 

Desdemona draws a sharp breath in through her nose. “Safe, though? Secure?” 

“As much as it can be.”

She nods. She pulls the cigarette back out of the ash tray and takes a drag. “It doesn’t sound as though it went poorly? If they freely gave you that chip.” 

Anthony’s face does something complicated, his brow bending in and his mouth pinching a little at the corners. His eyes flicker up again, and then he turns, glancing around until he lands on one of the cabinets along the wall. He shoves back from the table and goes to it, pulling it open. Deacon can see several bottles of liquor lined up inside. Anthony grabs the bottle of whiskey near the front, and one of the squat glasses waiting to the side. 

He unscrews the cap. “When I got there, someone started talking to me through a speaker almost immediately, and led me to a glass elevator.”

He pours himself a finger, and knocks it back. Then he sets the glass back down, his hands coming to rest on either side of the cabinet. “It was like stepping into the Old World. Pristine. Clean. Like nothing I’ve seen since I woke up. And eventually, I came to a room with a glass cell. My son was inside of it.” 

Several gasps sound around the table. Anthony doesn’t turn around, just bends his head down. Deacon sees his fingers tighten against the wood. 

“I tried to talk to him,” Anthony says. His voice wavers. “But he didn’t know me. He was… frightened of me. Started yelling for help.” 

“Anthony,” Preston says softly, his chair scraping back. Anthony holds up a hand. Preston frowns, but stays in his chair. 

“A man came in, and recited some kind of code, and the kid just… froze.” 

“Oh god,” Deacon says. Desdemona catches his eye and they exchange worried glances.

Anthony lifts the bottle, and pours himself more whiskey. “This man proceeds to tell me he’s called Father. He’s the head of the Institute. And he is the reason I was released from the Vault. He ordered the emergency shutoff that triggered my pod to open.” 

“What?” Desdemona sits bolt upright. 

“Why would he—?” MacCready starts, faltering when Anthony knocks back another shot. 

“I thought, when I woke up, I’d be looking for an infant. I thought, after Kellogg’s memories, that I’d be looking for a ten-year-old child.” He drops the glass on the cabinet. “Apparently, my perception of time was far more fucked than I realized.”

A feeling of dread crawls into Deacon’s stomach. He stares at Anthony’s back, watches his shoulders hunch in tighter, his head still hanging down. Finally, he turns back around, and forces himself to look up at Desdemona. “My son was removed from the Vault somewhere around fifty, sixty years ago. And he is now the head of the Institute.” 

“Jesus Christ,” Preston murmurs at the same time Deacon drops his head into his hands and hisses, “Son of a bitch.”

“You’re… sure?” Desdemona says, stubbing out her cigarette with a few pointed jabs. “There’s no chance it was some kind of ploy?”

Anthony’s nostrils flare. Beneath his eyeglasses, Deacon can see his eyes starting to look a little wet. “I mean… I didn’t exactly demand a DNA test. But he looks…” He chokes on a shaky breath. “He looks just like his mother. He sounds like my father-in-law. And… he didn’t know I was coming, unless they somehow figured out we were building the interceptor. Which I guess is possible. But what does he gain by pretending to be my son off the cuff like that?” 

Desdemona frowns. “If they do know you’re Railroad, a play for trust and sympathy might buy them a way in.” 

Anthony looks down. “Trust. And sympathy.” He shakes his head. “I don’t think so.” He takes a moment to steady himself, holding his breath for a moment and then slowly letting it out. “There’s more, anyway.” 

For a moment, Deacon thinks he’s going to reach for the bottle again. But he finally says, “They used Shaun’s DNA to make the Gen-3s. _My_ DNA.” The color starts to drain from his face again. “In the end, I’m… indirectly responsible for all of them.” 

He sinks heavily back against the cabinet, rattling the glasses inside. Preston’s out of his chair in seconds, catching on to Anthony’s shoulders. Deacon looks away as Preston murmurs softly to him. He finds himself glancing at MacCready instead, who looks stunned. His eyes trail up from the table to fix on Deacon’s shades. Deacon squashes down the urge to reach for his hand.

After a few moments, Preston draws Anthony back to the table. Anthony’s eyes are red-rimmed and distant. 

“I’m sorry,” Desdemona says softly. “I can’t even imagine.” 

Anthony doesn’t meet her eyes. “I keep… coming back to the child. The synth. He—God, he used me. Our first meeting and he…” He grits his teeth for a moment. “He used it as an experiment. Just to see what I’d do, how I’d react to it. How could he…?”

“Fucking asshole,” MacCready says. He glances around quickly and mumbles, “Sorry.” 

“I’m… sorry to ask,” Desdemona says, “But you’re the only person that’s ever been inside and lived to tell the tale. Can you—”

“Yes, shit, sorry, I’m—” Anthony sits forward and sniffs. He pulls his glasses off to rub the back of his hand over his eyes. “I’m sorry. Yes. I’ve seen the whole thing. Or, the main parts. They gave me a full tour. It’s separated into departments, and they had me visit all of them. I can tell you as much as I was able to gather. But the reason I wanted you here, besides… telling you all that, was—they’ve asked me on a mission. With the Synth Retention Bureau.”

Desdemona tenses. “Is that—?”

“Yes. The Coursers.” He pushes his glasses back on. “It’s set for tomorrow morning. I bought time saying I need to come back, check in with the Minutemen, let them know I was all right. I have to meet the Courser tomorrow where they’ve tracked the missing synth, and that’s—”

“Tomorrow?” Desdemona interrupts. She reaches into her back pocket for her cigarettes. They shuffle loudly in the pack. How many has she smoked down? “Shit. Not much time for us to get there first.” 

Anthony shakes his head. “Even buying that time was tricky. But it gets more complicated. I asked you here because I’m hoping you’ll agree to stay here. Or at least away from Mercer. The synth they’re after is a raider at Libertalia.” 

“Oh _fuck_,” Deacon says. 

“Exactly,” Anthony says, glancing up at him.

Desdemona takes a long drag. “Is there any way to refuse to go through with it and maintain your cover?” 

“I don’t see how. I could try to say something important’s come up with the Minutemen, but even if that works, that won’t keep them from going after the synth. And they’ll ask me again, another time, and we’re gambling there. What if it’s a synth in Railroad custody next time? Shaun’s already trying to get me to agree to stay with them, it’s inevitable they’ll rope me in again, and then it’s a much bigger problem,” Anthony says. 

“Stay? Heck no,” MacCready says. Deacon’s inclined to agree.

“Anyway, it’s going to happen with or without me, is the point,” Anthony says.

“But there’s still time for us to intervene. If there was some way to get to him tonight—”

“Dez, we’re on thin ice here as it is,” Deacon says. “And us intervening, or hell even the Minutemen intervening, right after Anthony leaves to check in with them is going to look suspicious as hell.” 

“We can’t just sit back and allow a synth to be taken,” Desdemona says around a mouthful of smoke, narrowing her eyes. 

“I don’t like it any more than you do,” Deacon says. “But if it’s going to jeopardize what he just managed to achieve—”

“I know what’s at stake, Deacon,” she snaps sharply. Deacon sees MacCready stiffen out of the corner of his eye. To Anthony, Desdemona says, “If the Courser gets taken out, it could look like the raiders did it, and then—”

“You realize they’ll just send someone else after him,” Anthony cuts in.

“But if you can get him away in that time—”

“He’s a _raider_!” MacCready finally blurts, leaning around Deacon to glare at Desdemona. “You’re talking about setting a raider loose just because he’s a synth.” 

Desdemona’s mouth pinches shut. She draws the cigarette back in. 

“Desdemona, I don't want to do this. But I don’t see a way around it. If he returns to the Institute, maybe we have another chance to free him later,” Anthony says. 

“We can’t be party to returning one to the Institute. Most synths would rather die than return to that life. ” 

Her words hang between them for a moment, heavy and awkward. Desdemona stares at the table as she smokes. Anthony’s jaw works for a moment. Finally, he says, “Desdemona, if it comes down to the safety of Mercer, of the Railroad as a whole, over one synth… you have to understand the choice I’m being asked to make.” 

She doesn’t answer for a moment. Then, she reaches over to tap ash into the tray. “Just… please weigh that decision carefully.” 

“I wouldn’t do any less.” 

After a few moments of uncomfortable silence, Deacon says, “Dez, while he’s doing that, this… may be the right time to recall the troops. I mean, if the Institute’s eyes are anywhere, they’ll be on Libertalia…”

She looks up, then slowly nods. “You may be right. But I want someone watching Mercer who knows what’s happening, besides the guard. Tinker Tom’s still there, and I can fill him in—”

“Tom? Dez, he can’t shoot for shit, you know that. He needs to stealth boy out of there. I’ll go,” Deacon says. He half-expects MacCready to mutter something about Deacon’s skills, but when Deacon tries to catch sight of him out of the corner of his eye, he’s just sitting tense, looking down. 

“I want you covering the Church. We need to watch everyone’s approach, cover from high ground,” Desdemona says.

“I can watch Mercer.” 

Deacon whips his head around. MacCready’s got a determined set to his jaw as he meets his gaze. 

“You’d do that?” Deacon says softly. 

The back of MacCready’s neck starts to redden a little. “I can keep an eye on Anthony that way, too, it’s fine.” He looks across the table. But Deacon can’t look away from him. 

“Then it’s settled,” Desdemona says, exhaling quietly. “First thing in the morning.”

Anthony taps his fingers on the table. “Who else needs another drink?”

\----

They talk awhile longer. Anthony tries to describe the inside of the Institute, which apparently lives deep underneath the ruins of the old C. I. T., like a villain lair out of an issue of the _Unstoppables_ or something. He talks about Patriot, who turns out to be hardly more than a kid, the son of one of the Institute’s scientists. Again, like something out of a comic book B plot. Anthony says the kid’s thrilled to have a codename; clearly fixating on the important part, there. They talk through a few more odd details, until exhaustion and alcohol make his eyes droop. The guard shows Desdemona to a room somewhere down the hall, leaving Deacon and MacCready alone outside Anthony’s door. 

At some point in the evening, MacCready had loosened his scarf, and pulled off his hat, hanging it from his belt. He looks disheveled and soft in the low light of the hallway, and about as tired as Deacon feels. He should sleep. They both should. It’s already late, the night having drifted on around them. Still, as they stand together in the hall, neither makes a move to leave. 

It’s hard for Deacon to look away from him. His thoughts chase each other in circles as he does. MacCready volunteered to protect a safehouse. He would’ve tried to protect Deacon, back at the interceptor. _They can’t have you_. He didn’t have to, in the end. They made it, they fucking made it, but what about tomorrow? 

MacCready’s lips part. Deacon’s eyes dart down to them immediately. But instead of saying anything, he just tips his head toward the hall and then turns. Deacon follows, burying his suddenly restless hands in the pockets of his jeans. The hallway is mostly empty, and their footsteps echo back around them, bouncing off the stone. 

They reach Deacon’s room first, and stop together outside the door. MacCready’s eyes linger on the doorknob, on his shoes, on Deacon’s arms. The journey seems to stop at Deacon’s shoulders. Deacon just studies his face. He feels something in the pit of his stomach. Something like adrenaline, but muted; something like want, but gentle; something like need, but bigger.

MacCready opens his mouth again. Deacon hears the soft intake of breath, and watches the tip of his tongue dart out to wet his lips. Then he drops his eyes and starts to turn. “I should—”

Deacon’s hand shoots out almost before he knows he’s going to move. “MacCready—”

That’s as far as he gets. The second his fingers brush MacCready’s arm, MacCready snaps back around, takes one single step, and crushes their mouths together. 

He pulls back just as quickly as he’d turned, before Deacon can lift his hands, or move his lips. “I’m sorry, I—crap, I shouldn’t… have… just…”

Each word goes softer as Deacon reaches up and slides his hands over MacCready’s jaw, stubble scraping lightly against his palms, his pulse loud in his ears. His thumbs come to rest in front of MacCready’s ears, his fingers curving around the back of MacCready’s head, and then MacCready seems to forget he was speaking at all. 

“Don’t,” Deacon whispers as he leans in. He’s not even sure what the end of that sentence was meant to be. _Don’t apologize. Don’t go. Don’t stop._ MacCready just raises his chin, meeting Deacon’s lips again. 

Deacon gets it, is the thing. He’s not sure either of them could find the words for it, but Anthony’s story hangs over them like a deep shadow, terrible and impossible and real, upending whatever solid ground they thought they stood on before now. It seems trite to think of this as clinging to each other in the dark, but god, Deacon feels like he needs something to cling to, right now. Something—just one single thing—that feels right, if everything else has to be so wrong.

They sink into the kiss, gentle this time for all that it sets Deacon’s heart racing. He tilts his head, thrilling in the soft click of their lips as they part and then meet again, chaste kisses that linger and blend into one another. MacCready’s hands slip under Deacon’s jacket and curl around his waist, pulling him closer. 

Still, even as Deacon tightens his hold, an old, familiar spike of fear lances through the warmth in his chest. They’re out in the hallway of the Minutemen’s home base — someone’s going to turn the corner any minute and see them. Someone’s going to _know_. And there’s a voice in Deacon’s head telling him now, more than ever, he ought to be suspicious of every stranger in a uniform as easy to imitate as the Minutemen’s. He ought to be keeping every tell in check, every secret, every feeling, no matter how much his body aches with it. Cage in that hungry, snarling thing in him that howls to be soothed, and fed. But he’s spent the better part of two days certain that every hour was going to be their last. And of all the fears crowding together in his head, the fear he’ll never get another night like this again is the one that finally, _finally_ wins out.

So when the quiet shuffle of footsteps reaches them from further down the hall, Deacon does break the kiss, but he doesn’t let go. MacCready’s eyes flutter open, flicking up to Deacon’s face to gauge his reaction. Deacon holds his gaze as the footsteps move further away, disappearing when a door creaks open and then shut again. 

“Stay,” Deacon whispers into the space between them. He’s still hovering close enough to feel MacCready’s breath hot against his lips as his eyes move back and forth over Deacon’s face. His hands leave Deacon’s waist, and Deacon’s heart sinks a little until he feels his sunglasses being pushed up onto the top of his head.

“Say it again,” MacCready says. 

Deacon takes a breath, and then strokes his thumb over MacCready’s cheekbone. “Stay with me tonight. Please.”

The last word is barely more than a whisper. MacCready studies him a moment longer, then leans forward and presses another kiss to the corner of Deacon’s mouth. That’s all the answer he gives. He steps back, out of Deacon’s hold, and then turns toward the door. 

\----

Deacon’s hands fly back to MacCready’s face the moment the door closes, as though drawn there. The tenderness between them sharpens, and burns, until it’s a frantic, feral thing. Their kisses sharpen and burn with it, mouths open, teeth bared. Deacon swallows every breath MacCready gasps out against his lips, like he can hold them in his own lungs as proof: he’s alive, they’re alive, they’re _alive_. Deacon just about growls when MacCready bites at his lower lip, then runs his tongue over it like an afterthought.

It’s not the same as the first time, and nothing like the second. Their hands pull frantically at their own clothes, wrenching back from the kiss to rip off each layer and then colliding again, as though the only thing that matters in the world is pressing their skin together. Deacon sucks in a sharp breath when they finally do, wrapping his arms tight around MacCready’s back the second he yanks his last shirt off, thwarting his attempt at unbuttoning his pants. Deacon pulls MacCready close enough to feel every ragged breath in the parachute swell of his chest, in the sharp drop of his shoulders. MacCready’s fingers clamp down on Deacon’s biceps. 

They kiss all the while, messy, biting kisses that sting Deacon’s lips. He feels the strapped bullets at MacCready’s thigh pressing cold and sharp into his own, already bare. He doesn’t care. Let MacCready grip his arms hard enough to bruise. Let his stupid belts scratch Deacon’s skin. Whatever it takes to keep Deacon’s head here, grounded down in the moment he didn’t think he’d get.

And for a while, they stay like that, crashing into every kiss with a kind of breathless desperation, clutching each other close. A kiss for every excuse Deacon made, every hour he wasted, every moment he let pass him by. A kiss for everything he’s held back. 

When he finally tears away panting, he presses his cheek to MacCready’s, nosing at the skin below his temple. MacCready’s hands finally loosen a little, trailing up to Deacon’s shoulders. One of them settles around the back of his neck. 

Deacon almost says something. Right then, right against MacCready’s ear. But the words tangle in his throat. He kisses his way down MacCready’s jaw instead, trying to anchor himself against the sudden swell of feeling. He stops to suck a bruise right against MacCready’s collarbone, and earns a soft moan, MacCready’s head tipping back. His fingers tighten at Deacon’s neck. Then Deacon trails kisses down his chest, sinking to his knees as he goes. He starts the fumbling work of undoing MacCready’s thigh belts. 

He dares a glance up as he works, his sunglasses now lost somewhere among his clothes, and his breath catches. MacCready watches him with lidded eyes, his gaze heavy, and intent. Full of something that makes Deacon’s throat feel thick. 

Deacon looks away, back down at his hands. He pulls one of the belts free, and starts on the next, but his fingers are shaking. He knows MacCready can see it. He yanks at the clasp, missing the catch three times before MacCready’s hands cover his, stilling them. He pushes them gently away. Deacon drops them to his sides, sitting back on his haunches, and watches. Of course, a sniper’s hands are sure and steady. Deacon’s hands are so rarely anything else. He swallows, and tries to breathe. 

He leans in again once MacCready undoes his pants, and helps pull them away. Deacon runs his shaky fingers from MacCready’s knees to his hips. Their frantic energy has fizzled into something else, something quieter, but no less fierce. 

“Do you want—?” Deacon starts, and then almost winces. His voice scrapes in his mouth, too loud, too rough. He sweeps his thumbs over the waistband of MacCready’s briefs. 

MacCready’s hand settles on Deacon’s jaw, thumb tipping his chin up. That same heavy gaze waits above him. God, MacCready’s eyes are beautiful. He looks at Deacon with the same kind of fixed intensity he has when he looks through his scope. Hawk eyes, Hancock called them, and Deacon thinks of the yao guai, tossing its head and throwing its weight, of MacCready finding the perfect split second to pull the trigger. To be pinned underneath that gaze now, to have no idea what MacCready can see as he studies Deacon’s face, to feel so utterly stripped bare, so fucking _seen_—

And to feel so unafraid of it? 

“Come here,” MacCready finally says, pushing his thumb gently up on Deacon’s chin. Deacon pushes himself back to his feet, and MacCready catches his hand, pulling him over to the bed where it’s shoved into the corner, one side pressed to the wall. 

Deacon hears the soft creak of the bed frame as MacCready drops down onto the ratty green blanket tucked around the mattress. He frowns, and turns to yank the blanket back, baring the sheets underneath. Then he slides back, tugging Deacon’s hand. Deacon takes the hint and climbs up after him. They settle back with Deacon sinking down between MacCready’s thighs and leaning over him, elbows braced awkwardly on either side until MacCready folds his arms around him and pulls him down a little.

“Come on, I’m not gonna break,” MacCready says, looking up at Deacon with heat in his eyes.

And there’s really no hiding how that heat travels straight to Deacon’s groin. He takes a shaky breath and shifts his arms to bracket MacCready’s ribs, sinking more of his weight down. Deacon hisses as the motion brushes their cocks together through their briefs, the both of them more than a little hard. MacCready moans in the back of his throat and reaches up to grip the back of Deacon’s neck again, yanking him into a hard kiss. 

They grind against one another, more mindless instinct than real intent, just blindly chasing the friction. Deacon loses himself more in just kissing MacCready, teasing out every raw little noise and sharp gasp he can with just the curve of his tongue, the press of his teeth, the drag of his lips. It takes him a long time to realize he’s clinging to MacCready’s shoulders, fingers digging in hard, but MacCready’s clinging to him in turn, arms so tight around Deacon’s back it’s making his ribs ache a little. Everything else becomes an afterthought. His arousal hums in the background, soft under the buzzing need to just stay pressed close, pressed into each other, tight enough to feel every shift, every heartbeat. 

It’s too heavy a thing to put into the words Deacon keeps thinking he should say. How could he say it better than the way his hands tighten, the way his fingers tremble? What can he say that his pulse isn’t already whispering for him? So Deacon just keeps kissing him, hoping when MacCready’s tongue brushes his, he’s tasting every word on the tip of it. 

Finally, long after Deacon’s lost track of how long they’ve been here, like this, MacCready’s hand slips down between them and inside Deacon’s briefs. Deacon lifts his hips half on instinct to let MacCready work them down a little, just enough to free his cock. He groans at the first teasing stroke, pulling out of the kiss. He feels MacCready’s hips shift against his, his free hand leaving Deacon’s back. Then he feels MacCready press their cocks together, and that tears another noise out of him he tries to stifle. MacCready’s hand wraps around both of them, just like before. Deacon’s fingers dig in even harder on MacCready’s shoulders as he thrusts a little into MacCready’s grip. MacCready peppers breathless kisses over Deacon’s jaw, his cheeks, whatever he can reach from where Deacon’s keeping him pinned. 

Once they manage to find a rhythm, Deacon finally eases a hand free and shifts his weight a little. He sees the red imprints of his fingers lingering on MacCready’s shoulder, and it makes his cock twitch against MacCready’s. _Fuck_. He reaches down blindly, until he finds MacCready’s hand pumping them both together. He wraps his own hand around MacCready’s, lacing their fingers together and matching the pace MacCready sets. MacCready’s eyes snap up to Deacon’s. He makes a helpless sort of noise that might be Deacon’s name. Deacon muffles the last of it with a kiss neither of them can hold for long, breathless as they are. Deacon presses his forehead to MacCready’s instead, hips jerking harder now as that calloused palm drags him close to the edge. 

MacCready comes a few strokes later, gasping out Deacon’s name again as he tenses under Deacon’s weight. Deacon’s not far behind him, thrusting a few more times as MacCready’s grip loosens. 

When Deacon collapses onto his side, still half-draped across MacCready, he’s shaking again. MacCready runs his clean hand over Deacon’s shoulders, curling to press his face to the top of Deacon’s head. He holds Deacon there until Deacon finally starts to catch his breath, his body going lax and still. 

Eventually MacCready shifts onto his back, gently sliding his arm free of Deacon’s head, which Deacon takes as his cue to sit up a little. MacCready rolls himself to the edge of the bed and stands. Deacon watches him hook his thumbs in his briefs and slip them the rest of the way down before padding across the stone floor to a water bucket Deacon hadn’t even noticed. MacCready plucks a rag off the top of the stack next to it and plunges it in the water. He winces at the cold as he starts to wash his stomach. Deacon should give him a moment, look away. He doesn’t move.

MacCready looks back at him when he finishes, his face softening when their eyes meet. He carries the rag over and arches a knee up onto the bed. Deacon starts to open his hand for the rag, but MacCready pulls it back.

“Just… let me,” he says. When Deacon furrows his brow, MacCready looks away and sighs. “Come on, just… let someone else take care of you for once.”

Deacon‘s hand drops limply to his side and he stares, certain he heard wrong. MacCready finally glances back at him, his mouth thinning into a determined line. He nudges Deacon onto his back, which takes a moment while Deacon tries to push through his shock, and starts wiping away the mess on his abdomen.

“I heard you talk Preston down,” MacCready says quietly as he works, “and when I had that nightmare, you came running, and everything with Anthony. And that’s just the last couple days. You’re always doing that.” 

He sets the rag aside on the nightstand and looks at Deacon again. “I just—” He stops, shakes his head, and sighs. Then he reaches over to pull Deacon’s briefs the rest of the way down his thighs. 

“You just what?” Deacon asks, hoarse. He lifts his legs and lets MacCready tug the underwear free of his ankles and then toss it on the floor. 

“Never mind,” MacCready says. “Move over.”

Deacon rolls onto his side, facing the wall. MacCready climbs into bed behind him. He pulls the covers up over both of them, and then presses himself up against Deacon’s back and slings an arm over his side. Deacon freezes, biting the inside of his cheek to ride out the warning flare of anxiety. Then he slowly relaxes back into MacCready’s arms. MacCready shifts, and Deacon feels a soft warmth against the back of his neck, there and gone. A kiss. It burns against his skin long after he hears MacCready drift into sleep, snoring quietly in Deacon’s ear. It’s a long time before Deacon follows.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1) As I mentioned in the warnings, Anthony's having a vasovagal reaction, something that can be triggered by intense stress (basically your blood pressure drops very very quickly, which can have a lot of triggers, and you can get many of the symptoms depicted, as well as fainting). Without getting specific, this is something I have both experienced and have to deal with relatively frequently in my actual work, so this was a chance to shunt in some random personal knowledge. Distractions (like the boys are inadvertently providing) can actually help in milder episodes.
> 
> 2) The unofficial official title of this chapter comes from my beta's final comment on the doc: "THE MORTIFYING ORDEAL OF BEING KNOWN VS. THE REWARDS OF BEING THE LITTLE SPOON." 
> 
> As I mentioned above, the final chapter is finished. It'll go up as soon as I have the epilogue ready. I'll probably wait a few days after it's posted and then post the epilogue. So close. Come say hi on twitter @galaxiesgone or on tumblr @electricshoebox. Much love to you all, please continue to stay safe out there.


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